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Novels by Christian Reid. 

The Picture of Las Cruces. A Romance of Mexico. 

i2mo. Paper^ 50 cents ; cloth, $1.00. 

The Land of the Sun. Vistas Mexicanas. i2mo. 
Cloth, $1.75. 

Valerie Aylmer. 8vo. Paper, 75 cents ; cloth, $1.25. 
Morton House. 8vo, Paper, 75 cents ; cloth, $1.25. 
Mabel Lee. 8vo. Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.25. 
Ebb=Tide. 8vo. Paper, 75 cents; cloth, $1.25. 

Nina’s Atonement, etc. 8vo. Paper, 75 cts. ; cloth, $1.25. 
A Daughter of Bohemia. 8vo. Paper, 75c. ; cloth, $1.25. 
Bonny Kate. 8vo. Paper, 75 cents ; cloth, $1.25. 

After Many Days. 8 vo. Paper, 7^ cents; cloth, $1.25. 
The Land of the Sky. 8vo. Paper, 75 cts. ; cloth, $1.25. 
Hearts and Hands. 8vo. Paper, 50 cents. 

A Gentle Belle. 8vo. Paper, 50 cents. 

A Question of Honor. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

Heart of Steel. lamo. Cloth, $1.25. 

Roslyn’s Fortune. i2mo. Cloth, $1.25. 

A Summer Idyl. i8mo. Paper, 30 cents ; cloth, 60 cents. 
Miss Churchill. lamo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, $1.00. 
A Comedy of Elopement. i2mo. Paper, 50 cents; 
cloth, $1.00. 


D. APPLETON AND COMPAxNY, NEW YORK. 


AFTER MANY DAYS 



A NOVEL. 




CHRISTIAN REID, 


AUTHOR OF 

•‘a QUB8TION OF HONOB,” “ MORTON HOUSE,” “ VALERIE AYLMER,” ETC. 


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NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

1905. 






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LlBRAffY of OONGSESS 
Two Copies rtscwvea 

MAR 30 1905 

Oopyrigni •iiury 
OUiSS a XXC. Nos 

/ / 0 8-T^ 

'copy b. 




Copyright, 1877, 

By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 


Copyright, 1906, 

By FLORENCE FISHER TIERNAN 



CONTENTS 


PART I. 

CHAPTBR 

I. Wild-Flowers . . . . 

II. “Jewels will be better” .... 

III. “’Tis BUT A Little Faded Flower” 
rV. “Altogether an Accident” 

V. The Heiress op Cedarwood . . . . 

VI. Under an Apple-Tree .... 

VII. Hugh receives a Commission . . . . 

VIII. “So LONG AS YOU ARE AMUSED” 

IX. Mr. Trafford offers Advice . . . . 

X. “ I WANDERED BY THE BrOOKSIDE ” . - 

XI. “ Would you like to pay your Debt ? ” 

XII. “ An Absolute Stroke of Luck ” . 

XIII. “Where is the Miniature?” . . . . 

XIV. Mrs. Lathrop fulfills a Duty 

XV. A Triumphant Debut . . . . . 

XVI. “I HAVE LIVED AND LOVED ” .... 

XVII. “ The Light in the Dust lies dead ” . 

XVIII. “I WILL HOLD YOUR HaND BUT AS LONG AS ALL MAY ” 

XIX. “The Thorns I reap are op the Tree I planted” . 


XX. Exeunt omnes 


4 


CONTENTS. 


PART II. 

CHAPTER 

I. After Ten Years . . . . 

II. A Shadow of the Past 

III. At last! ...... 

IV. In Richmond Park .... 

V. “Should Auld Acquaintance be forgot?” 

VI. A Voice from the Past 

VII. “The Luxury of Regret” 

VIII. “ Old Sentiment ” . 

IX. “For the Sake of the Past” . 

X. After all, Old Things are best 

XI. “ I REMEMBER WELL ”... 

XII. “The little less, and what Worlds away!” 

9 » C 

XIII. “ Scores are settled between Us ” . 

) c 

XIV. “ I WILL FIND THE WaY ! ” . 

XV. The Blow falls . . . . 

XVI. “ Checkmated — by Fate ” . 


PAGE 

122 

128 

133 

139 

145 

151 

155 

161 

167 

172 

177 

182 

187 

192 

198 

203 


XVII. 


“After Long Grief and Pain” 


208 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


PART I. 


CHAPTER I. 

WILD-FL0WEE8. 

A WOODLAND glen into which the soft 
April sunshine streamed, through which 
a bright brook babbled, where graceful 
trees leaned over the water, and flowers 
of many kinds covered the ground like a 
carpet : on a flat stone at the foot of 
one of these trees a girl of sixteen sat 
dabbling a leafy branch in the current of 
the brook, and varying this amusement 
occasionally bj leaning, over to look at 
the water, which gave back a reflec- 
tion of her face and of the white blos- 
soms of a hawthorn which arched over- 
head. 

Near by, a boy, probably two years 
her senior, also sat, engaged in weaving, 
with remarkably dexterous fingers, a 
wreath of wild-flowers, which • he had 
evidently gathered in the course of a long 
ramble. 

“ I don’t think there’s anything in the 
woods prettier than this crimson honey- 
suckle, Amy,” he said. “See what a 
vivid color it has ! ” 

“It is very pretty,” said Amy, glanc- 
ing up. “ But I care more for the sweet- 
ness than the color. Give me a spray, 
Hugh.” 

“Wait a minute,” said Hugh, “and 
you shall have the wreath. I am making 
it for you. I’ll put a long, trailing spray 
behind. There, now ! I call that pictu- 
resque ! ” 


He extended the wreath at arm’s- 
length, looked at it admiringly, then rose 
and laid it on his companion’s head — a 
head covered with unruly masses of chest- 
nut hair, in rich, curling waves. 

“ It’s very becoming to you ! ” he said, 
stepping backward for a better view, and 
nearly tumbling over an outspread root 
into the water. “ What a lovely Queen 
of May you’d make, Amy ! ” 

Amy leaned over and looked at her- 
self in the clear brook. 

“‘For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, 
mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the May,’ ” 
she hummed, under her breath. “It’s 
likely, isn’t it? ” she added, with a laugh 
that had a slight ring of bitterness. 
“Fancy anybody in Edgerton thinking 
of Amy Reynolds as Queen of May — ex- 
cept you, Hugh ! ” 

“I’m not the only person who thinks 
you the prettiest girl in Edgerton,” said 
Hugh. “ I sometimes wish I was ! Oh, 
yes, I do ! ” — as Amy looked at him, arch- 
ing her brows in a challenging fashion 
she had. “ It’s no pleasure to me to hear 
men say, ‘ There goes pretty Amy Rey- 
nolds.’ I always feel like knocking them 
down — and I’m not large enough for 
that,” he ended, ruefully. 

“ I shouldn’t advise you to try it,” 
said Amy, and again her laugh rang out, 
this time full of unalloyed gayety. “ Y ou 
are not large, Hugh, and the consequences 
might be unpleasant. Besides ”-^with an 
almost Gallic shrug — “ what does it mat- 
ter? Am I injured by being called 


6 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


‘Pretty Amy Reynolds?’ It’s not re- 
spectful — but then it is meant to be com- 
plimentary.” 

“And you like compliments?” said 
Hugh, with an attempt at sarcasm. 

“ Of course I like compliments,” an- 
swered Amy. “I’d prefer them to be 
respectful, but a person in my position 
can’t expect that.” 

“Now you are talking nonsense,” said 
Hugh, severely. “A person in your po- 
sition ! As if you are not as good as any- 
body ! ” 

“ Am I ? ” the girl asked ; and her lip 
— too young a lip by far for such an ex- 
pression — curled scornfully. “That de- 
pends on what you mean. I hope I am 
as honest as anybody ; but I’m poor and 
obscure, and I don’t think that is exactly 
‘ as good as anybody.’ But we won’t talk 
about such disagreeable things. What 
are you going to do ? ” 

He had taken a book from his pocket 
while she was speaking, and opened it ; 
then he produced a pencil, and answered : 
“lam going to see if I can draw your 
head. Sit stiU, and look at the hill over 
there.” 

This was apparently not a new pro- i 
ceeding, for it excited no surprise. Amy 
said, “ I’ll look at tho dogwood-tree,” 
and Hugh went to work. 

He sketched rapidly, and with the ease 
of one who had acquired, from long prac- 
tice, perfect command of the pencil. If 
there had been any artist by to glance 
over his shoulder, he would have been 
surprised to see how accurate was his 
eye, how steady his hand ; and his sur- 
prise would have increased to amazement 
if he had known that the boy was alto- 
gether self-taught. With clear, vigorous 
strokes he drew the outlines of the grace- 
ful, spirited head, the long, waving lines 
of the beautiful neck, and still unformed 
but symmetrical figure. He shaded al- 
most as rapidly as he sketched, and his 
pencil was busy with the fiowery wreath 
and rippling hair, when Amy spoke, ab- 
ruptly : 


“ Hugh, wouldn’t you give anything 
to be rich ? ” 

“I shouldn’t care about being rich,” 
Hugh answered, glancing from his book 
to his sitter and his sitter to his book, in 
true artist-fashion. “ If I had money 
enough to go away and learn to be a 
painter — that’s all I’d ask.” 

“ That’s all you care for,” said Amy. 
“But I care for a hundred things, and 
for all of them I want money, money, 
money! There isn’t anything in the 
world, Hugh, that money can’t buy ! ” 

“You are mistaken about that, Amy. 
If you were ugly, it could not buy you a 
pretty face.” 

“And what good is my pretty face, 
when I never have a new dress or a be- 
coming hat from one year’s end to anoth- 
er ? ” demanded Amy, aggrieved. “ Do 
you know how I would look if I had on 
that lovely hat Miss Waldron wore in 
church this morning ? ” 

“ I’ve no doubt you’d look very pret- 
ty,” replied Hugh, “ but it couldn’t be 
any more becoming to you than your 
wreath of wild-flowers.” 

Amy tossed the head on which this 
I wreath reposed. Wild-flowers were, in 
her sight, less than nothing compared to 
a French hat in the latest style. 

“ That is absurd ! ” she said, trench- 
antly. “You are a boy, and you don’t 
know what you are talking about. If I 
was rich, I would have the most beauti- 
ful dresses — prettier than anybody here 
wears, except Miss Waldron — and I’d 
drive in a pony-carriage, and papa should 
never give another music-lesson, and Felix 
should go to Leipsic, and the other boys 
to the hest schools, and Mariette should 
be dressed like an angel, and you should 
go and learn to be a painter, Hugh.” 

“ I am much obliged to your ladyship,” 
said Hugh. “ And after I had learned, 
would you aUow me the honor of paint- 
ing your portrait? ” 

“ Yes, and I would wear violet velvet 
and point-lace and pearls for you to paint 
it in.” 


WILD FLOWERS. 


7 


“ I like you best as you are,” said 
Hugh, “ and I really don’t think it’s right, 
Amy, for you to think so much about such 
things. It only makes you miserable, 
since you can’t have them.” 

“ But I will have them ! ” cried Amy. 
“ I am determined on that, Hugh. I will 
be rich ! I am sick and tired of the grind- 
ing life we lead, of worry and debt and 
scraping and pinching, and wearing 
washed-out dresses ! People who have 
never known the want of money may 
talk of it’s being wrong to desire it,” the 
girl went on, passionately, “ but I Tcnow 
that there is no prison on earth like pov- 
erty, and I hate it, and I don’t mean to 
bear it ! ” 

Hugh looked at her with a pair of very 
clear, serene eyes — the only attractive 
feature in his boyish face. From his ear- 
liest childhood he had known the life of 
which she spoke ; at this very moment he 
Avas held prisoner by “ those twin-jailers 
of the daring heart, low birth and iron 
fortune,” but it was not in his nature to 
rebel with such bitterness and defiance as 
this. 

Though he was not able to make art 
the pursuit of his life, its exercise was 
still a delight to him ; and when he held a 
pencil in his fingers, he scarcely sighed 
even for the instruction which at other 
times he would have bartered anything 
to win. Young as he was, he had been 
tossed about the world enough to know 
something of its dangers, and he felt a 
thrill of fear as he looked at the beautiful 
face before him, and thought of the pas- 
sionate, undisciplined nature longing so 
madly for the pleasures and trappings of 
wealth. 

“You should not talk so, Amy,” he 
said, reprovingly. “ You may be sure it 
is very wrong. How can a girl like you 
make money ? ” 

“ How ? ” replied Amy. “ Why, in 
this way.” 

Then she threw her head slightly back, 
curved her round, white throat, and, open- 
ing her mouth, sent forth such a clear. 


ringing tide of melody, that a bird in the 
tree over her head flew up with a startled 
cry. Yet, if it had paused a moment 
longer, it might have thought that one 
of its own companions was pouring out 
those sounds of the woodland stillness. 

Certainly Amy sang with as little 
efibrt as a bird, and Hugh felt that he 
had never before appreciated the beauty 
and power of her voice. It had wonder- 
ful compass as well as exquisite purity, 
and was flexible as a wind-instrument. 

The echo-song which she had begun 
to sing tested this last quality admirably. 
As her silver notes soared in the long- 
drawn call, and then sank, the hill -side 
joined in giving back the soft, dying echo. 

“Brava! ” said an unexpected voice 
in the rear, and a pair of hands beat en- 
thusiastically together. 

Amy and Hugh turned simultaneous- 
ly, surprised and a little startled. 

Standing so near, that but for the sing- 
ing they must have heard his approach, 
was a stranger, regarding them with a 
smile — a young man, of handsome face 
and elegant figure. 

Seeing how much he had startled them, 
he was the first to speak : 

“I beg pardon,” he said, lifting his 
hat lightly. “ I had no right to express 
my admiration, but one does not often 
listen to such a voice. Allow me to say 
that it is wonderful, and I have heard all 
the best singers of the day.” 

“Thank you,” said Amy. 

She did not know what else to say, 
and she blushed very much in saying 
this. 

Hugh, on his part, looked at once fierce 
and awkward. He considered the intru- 
sion a great impertinence, but being only 
a “^hobbledehoy,” as Amy often called 
him, he did not clearly see how to mani- 
fest this opinion. 

“ I am afraid I was foolish to let my 
enthusiasm find expression,” the stran- 
ger went on, with his glance fixed admir- 
ingly on Amy’s face, to which Hugh’s 
wreath was indeed very becoming. “I 


8 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


interrupted you, when, if I had kept quiet, 
I might have heard another song.” 

“I did not mean to sing any more,” 
answered Amy, who had recovered her 
self-possession by this time. “ Hugh has 
heard me often enough. He does not care 
about it.” 

“But / have not heard you often,” 
said that gentleman, “ and I should be 
very grateful for another song. Music is 
the passion of my life, and I have never 
heard a finer voice than yours.” 

“ Don’t sing, Amy ! ” said Hugh, 
brusquely. “It is time for us to go 
home.” 

The intruder gave him an amused and 
carelessly supercilious glance; then he 
looked at Amy again, and she thought 
what very handsome eyes he had ! 

“ I fear,” he said, addressing her, 
“ that you may think me a little presum- 
ing ; but I am one of the most unconven- 
tional people in the world, and there is 
nothing I like better than to ignore the 
starch and buckram of society occasional- 
ly, and make an acquaintance in a natural, 
informal manner. As a warrant of my 
respectability, allow me to say that my 
name is Marchmont, and I am a cousin 
and guest of the Lathrops, with whom, 
if you live in Edgerton, you are probably 
acquainted.” 

“ I am not acquainted with them, but 
I know who they are,” answered Amy, 
always proudly literal in her statements. 
“ They are very rich, fashionable people, 
while I am the daughter of Mr. Reynolds, 
the music-teacher. And this is Hugh 
Dinsmore,” she added, with an instinct of 
courtesy. 

Mr. Marchmont lifted his hat again, 
with the air of one who acknowledges 
an introduction. “ I am happy to know 
you. Miss Reynolds,” he said. “ Finding 
Sunday afternoon dull, I sauntered out 
into the woods, but I did not expect to 
meet either Flora or Euterpe— much less 
the two in one. May I hope that you 
will, of your charity, sing another song 
for me ? ” 


“ Amy,” said Hugh, again breaking in, 
“ it is certainly time for us to go home.” 

In return for his solicitude, Amy 
flashed a glance of vexation at him. “ It 
is not time, Hugh, and you know it ! ” she 
said, in an irritated tone. — “Did you like 
the song I sang before ? ” she asked, turn- 
ing to Mr. Marchmont. 

“ Very much,” he replied. 

“ Well, I will sing you something bet- 
ter now,” she said, quietly. Then, fold- 
ing her hands and looking straight up into 
the blue sky, to his amazement she began 
the “fwjws awmam,” from Rossini’s 
“ Stabat Mater.” Even Hugh forgot his 
anger as he listened, for it might have been 
a seraph singing the divine melody instead 
of the girl who so shortly before had 
been talking of violet velvet and point- 
lace. It was impossible to connect any 
earthly association with the pure notes 
that fell on the ear like “the music of 
the spheres,” and seemed capable of pierc- 
ing to the very courts of heaven. When 
the last, strain ceased, Amy’s eyes drooped 
for the first time, and then she turned 
them on Mr. Marchmont. 

He had unconsciously advanced nearer 
to her, and his face was absolutely aglow 
with excitement. “ Why, it is divine ! ” he 
cried. “Good heavens! do you know 
that you have one of the most beautiful 
voices in the world? ” 

“I am glad that you think so,” she 
answered ; and she looked (Hugh thought) 
exultant. A starry light streamed into 
her dark-gray eyes, a vivid flush of color 
shone on her peach-like cheeks. “ Papa 
has taken a great deal of pains with my 
voice,” she went on, “and he does not 
like me to sing for people in general ; but, 
since you said you were cultivated musi- 
cally — which most people in Edgerton are 
not,” she added, candidly, “I thought I 
would like your opinion of my singing. 
Do you think that I can make a fortune 
with my voice ? ” 

“ I am sure of it,” he answered, confi- 
dently. “No one who heard you could 
fail to be sure. There is gold, and tri- 


“JEWELS WILL BE BETTER. 


9 


umph, and delight for multitudes in that 
throat of yours.” 

She made him a pretty little courtesy 
— the girl was lissome and graceful as a ' 
bayadere. 

“Thank you,” she said. — “And now 
I will not detain you longer. Hugh, it is 
time for us to go.” 

“You must let me thank you for the 
great pleasure you have given me,” said 
Mr. Marchmont, eagerly. 

“If I have given you pleasure, you 
have given me encouragement, so you 
are not all in my debt,” she replied. 

“ But you may come to my debut^ if you 
will.” 

“ I shall certainly be there,” he said, 
smiling. 

As she moved away, the spray of 
honeysuckle which had been attached to 
her wreath behind dropped to the ground, 
and he stooped for it. “ I shall keep this 
as a souvenir of my pleasant adventure,” 
he said, “ and on the night of your first 
triumph I will return it in roses. Thanks 
again, and au remiry - 

“This way, Amy. We have to go for 
the children,” said Hugh, impatiently. 


CHAPTER II. 

“jewels will be bettee.” 

They walked on in silence through 
the woods for some minutes. Then Amy 
said : 

“ Why are you so cross, Hugh ? There 
was no harm in singing for the gentleman.” 

“Yes, there was harm,” answered 
Hugh. “You ought to know better. I 
am sure your father would not like it if 
he knew.” 

“Then we won’t let him know,” said 
Amy, with that expressive play of coun- 
tenance which the French call a moue. 
“Though I don’t really think he would 
care,” she added. “Papa is not a drag- 
on.” 


“ But he is a man,” said Hugh, who 
was greatly vexed, “ and he knows thq,t a 
young girl should not sing to every stran- 
ger who chooses to ask her to do so.” 

“ I should not have sung to him if I 
had not wanted his opinion of my voice,” 
said Amy ; “ and I am so glad he praised 
it. What was it he said? — ‘gold, tri- 
umph, the delight of multitudes,’ in my 
throat ! O Hugh I I am so happy I could 
dance and sing for joy ! ” 

She clapped her hands as she spoke, 
and, making a movement like a ballet- 
dancer’s pirouette^ darted forward sever- 
al paces, and then waltzed back. 

“ For shame — on Sunday ! ” said Hugh, 
who had heard numerous admonitions 
about “ the Sabbath-day ” in his early 
youth, and in whose memory the recol- 
lection of such teaching still lingered. 

“ Where’s the harm ? ” asked the girl, 
gayly. “ May I not sing as well as the 
birds, and dance as well as the sunbeams? 
Pouf! as old Madame Duchesne says. I 
am going to be rich ; I am going to be ad- 
mired ; I am going to Zm.— Hugh, did you 
know I could sing so well ? ” 

“ I never had an idea of it, Amy,” re- 
plied Hugh, simply. 

“And, to tell you the truth,” said 
Amy, stopping short and looking at him, 
with her face flushed into radiant beauty, 
“ I had no idea of it myself until this 
evening. Do you know what being in- 
spired means? I think I was inspired 
when I sang that ‘ Cujiis animam? 
Wasn’t it divine? I felt as if I could do 
anything in the world with my voice — as 
: if I could send it straight up into heaven 
: if I chose. I never had such a sense 
of power before. I did not think of any- 
I thing while I sang except the delight 
I of uttering such thrilling sounds. Papa 
never praises my voice, though I know he 
thinks it very fine ; but when I saw Mr. 
Marchmont’s face— and hasn’t he splen- 
did eyes? — then I knew that fortune 
and fame are here ” — she touched her 
throat. 

“And will your father consent to your 


10 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


singing in public? ” asked Hugh, his face 
growing grave. 

The girl stared at him. 

“ Why, that is what he means me to 
do!” she said. “That is why he is so 
careful of my voice — cultivating it, hut 
never allowing me to strain it. He would 
not let me sing in the church-choir, 
though I have been so anxious to do 
it ; not that I cared about the choir, but 
I wanted to test my voice in a large build- 
ing. I am satisfied now, however. I 
know that I can fill any theatre in the 
world.” 

“I suppose I ought to be glad,” said 
Hugh, “ but I’m not, and I can’t help it. 
I hope you are mistaken — I hope your 
voice is not as good as you think. I 
should be glad of anything that kept you 
from going on the stage.” 

This was more than Amy could bear. 
Her eyes flashed with anger instead of 
delight, and she fairly stamped her foot. 

“How dare you! — oh, how dare you 
hope such a cruel thing ! ” she cried. “ I 
didn’t think you could be so mean ! 
When there is but one chance of relief 
from this horrible life of poverty — one 
chance to free others as well as to escape 
myself — you grudge me that! O Hugh, 
I didn’t think you could ! ” 

Hugh felt stricken with remorse, yet 
unable to retract what he had uttered. 

“ I wish to Heaven I was rich and 
older! ” he said, with a sigh. 

“Wishes are of no good,” said Amy, 
with the air of one who had given them 
a fair trial and found them useless. “ But 
if you were as rich as an emperor, and a 
hundred years old, you could not keep 
me from going on the stage. Gold, tri- 
umph, the delight of multitudes — oh, I 
wTsh I was going to make my debut to- 
night! You should paint my portrait in 
the costume of the character in which I 
achieved my first triumph.” 

“Not I,” said Hugh, grimly. “I 
should paint you, with your wreath of 
wild-flowers, as my Amy — not the pub- 
lic’s.” 


“But I am not your Amy, sir,” she 
said, laughing; and then she began sing- 
ing again, trilling her birdlike notes for 
very birdlike joy. 

The sun was nearly down when they 
paused a few minutes later on the crest 
of a hill which they had been gradual- 
ly ascending. Immediately below lay a 
green valley, through the midst of which 
wound a stream — 

“ A sedgy brook whereby the red kine meet 

And wade to drink their fill,” 

and over the fallen tree which made a 
rustic bridge across this a party of chil- 
dren were trooping in single file. 

“ There they are ! ” said Amy, waving 
her handkerchief. 

“ What a beautiful scene ! ” said Hugh, 
in the tone of one thrilled suddenly. 
“ Look, Amy — look ! ” 

Amy looked in the direction which he 
indicated, but it is doubtful whether she 
understood what had stirred him. She, 
to whom one kind of harmony was so in- 
telligible, scarcely comprehended the har- 
mony of another kind which filled the 
fair landscape, sweeping westward to the 
golden sky. 

But to Hugh it was even more divine 
than the “Gwjwsawmaw.” There was a 
pearly mist over everything like the haze 
of Indian summer, only it was more deli- 
cate, and had in it all the buoyancy of 
spring, the indefinable sense of awaken- 
ing life — of resurrection instead of death. 
Near at hand the softly-swelling hills and 
lovely meadows were covered with em- 
erald; afar the fringe of distant forest 
melted into azure softness. There were 
clouds of snowy blossoms in the fields, 
and every breeze was laden with fra- 
grance. The sun was sinking behind the 
mist which near the horizon veiled his 
glory so that it could be gazed upon fear- 
lessly. Filmy vapors of rose and gold 
floated above, and high over these the 
new moon rode — a slender silver boat. 

“ And I shall not see it again for anoth- 
er week ! ” said the boy, in a tone of keen 


“JEWELS WILL BE BETTER/ 


11 


pain. “ Oh, how can people live in the 
world and think so little of its beauty ! 
Amy, I could paint that sky. I know — I 
know I could ! ” 

“ Just as I know that I could fill an 
opera-house with my voice,” said Amy, 
arching her throat. “ When I am prima 
donna assoluta, you shall paint as many 
sunsets as you like, Hugh.” 

“ Do you think I would take your 
money?” asked Hugh, flushing. “We 
may laugh about such things, but you 
mustn’t believe for a minute that I would 
really do it.” 

“ Then you would be very ungracious,” 
said Amy, indignantly. 

The embryo quarrel was stopped here 
by the advent of the children, who came 
running and laughing up the hill, laden 
with flowers and blossoming boughs. 
There were seven of them, ranging in 
age from fourteen to six years. Four of 
these were Amy’s brothers and sister ; 
the other three were the children of Mrs. 
Crenshaw, a kind woman who kept a 
boarding-house next door to the Rey- 
noldses, and made no claim to social 
position. If she had done so, Willie, 
Fanny, and Hetty Crenshaw would prob- 
ably have been pacing decorously to Sun- 
day-school in their best bib and tucker, 
instead of running wild, like young fawns, 
in the lovely spring woods with “ those 
Reynolds children.” 

Of the last there were three boys and 
one girl, besides Amy; Felix, the eldest 
of the boys, had been named after Men- 
delssohn, and justified his name by the 
precocity of his musical genius. He had 
played from the time that his tiny fingers 
could touch the keys, and now, at four- 
teen, his father — a musician himself of 
rare power — declared that he could teach 
him no more. “ He knows as much of 
the science of harmony as I do,” Mr. Rey- 
nolds would say ; “ he will make a great 
musician, if I can send him to Germany.” 
That however, was gigantic. On this 
April evening, the path by which Felix 
was to go to Germany had not opened yet. 


The other two boys, Oliver and Er- 
nest, were more ordinary ; they, too, pos- 
sessed in a measure the musical talent of 
the family, but it was largely dominated 
by the tastes and habits of common boy- 
hood. And youngest of all was pretty 
baby Mariette, with a face like an opening 
rose-bud, great eyes of turquoise-blue, and 
a shower of glittering ringlets falling to 
her waist. 

It may be imagined how gayly — yet, 
certainly, how harmlessly — this group of 
I children laughed and talked as they took 
their way homeward through the gloam- 
ing, so tenderly purple, so delightfully 
fragrant. Amy and Hugh led the pro- 
cession — and a quaint Bohemian pair they 
were: the future prima donna assoluta 
was habited in a muslin dress which many 
washings had very much faded and slight- 
ly shrunken; her straw hat was swung 
on her arm like a basket, while Hugh’s 
wreath still crowned her graceful head. 
So pretty and so shabby was she, that she 
might be described in general terms as 
looking like a vagabond Queen of May. 
Her companion, though not less shabby, 
was decidedly less picturesque; he was 
simply an undersized boy, plain of face and 
awkward of movement, whose clothes, 
though clean, were much worn and also 
a little outgrown. 

So long as they were in the country, 
these trifles of costume mattered little, 
and it was only when they approached 
the outskirts of the town that Amy began 
to wear that air of defiance which soon 
comes to social outlaws. 

The road which they were following 
left the sweet wildness of the open 
country and led first between grass-lots 
and cultivated fields, then by a stone-wall 
of considerable length, over the top of 
which evergreens drooped, showing that 
grounds of large extent and probable 
beauty lay within. 

“If I were rich I would not build a 
wall around my grounds to deprive people 
of the pleasure of looking at them,” said 
Hugh. 


12 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“ If you were rich you would not care 
how people who had no grounds felt about 
it,” said Amy. “It is to Iceep us from 
looking at their lawns and gardens that 
they build such walls.” 

“ Isn’t this where General Waldron 
lives?” asked Oliver. “He’s the old 
gentleman who has such a big white mus- 
tache. I like his looks.” 

“ It’s a pretty place — we can get a 
glimpse through the gate,” said Felix, 
stopping before this portal, which was of 
iron. “ I see a lawn and part of a foun- 
tain, and the corner of a greenhouse — ” 

“ Felix — the rest of you, come on I ” 
cried Amy, sharply. 

All the small faces which had been 
pressed against the iron bars turned quick- 
ly. The reasQn of Amy’s sharpness was 
at once apparent. An open carriage, 
drawn by two dark-bay horses, was rapid- 
ly approaching. 

“ It’s the Waldron carriage ! ” said 
Ernest, darting away. 

The rest followed hastily, and the dig- 
nity of their retreat was further marred 
by Hetty Crenshaw tripping over a stone, 
and having to be lifted, dusted, and led 
away weeping. 

Amy walked in front with a flushed 
face. She would have scorned to peep 
through the Waldron gate herself, but she 
felt compromised by the conduct of her 
cohort ; and when a head, adorned by the 
hat of which she had spoken admiringly, 
nodded more kindly than patronizingly 
from the carriage, she responded with a 
salutation stiff enough to have rebuked 
aspiring presumption rather than ac- 
knowledge superior condescension. 

“ What an extraordinary-looking cav- 
alcade I ” said another lady,’ putting up 
an eye-glass. “For mercy’s sake, who 
are they? Oh, the Reynolds children! 
I hope they haven’t been rifling your 
flower-garden.” 

“Hardly,” Miss Waldron laughed. 
“All those spoils came from the woods. 
Did you notice how pretty Amy looked 
with that wreath of flowers on her head ? ” 


“ I thought she looked very peculiar, 
but I didn’t notice exactly what was the 
matter. What a theatrical idea, to walk 
through the streets decked in such fashion 
— on Sunday evening, too ! ” 

The carriage rolled in, the gates 
clashed together, and the Reynolds chil- 
dren dropped from the conversation and 
minds of its occupants. 

“ That was Miss Lathrop with Miss 
Waldron,” said Hugh ; and Amy an- 
swered, “Was it? I did not observe.” 

Ho doubt there were numbers of other 
people to echo Miss Lathrop’s opinion 
with regard to Amy’s appearance, before 
she reached home. She passed group 
after group of well-dressed, Sunday-man- 
nered folk, with the deflant expression 
deepening somewhat on her face, but no 
other token of heeding their curious 
glances. Yet the uncharitable only said, 
“There* go those outlandish Reynolds 
children!” while the kindly remarked 
with a sigh, “ How that poor girl needs 
a mother ! ” 

When that girl thus commiserated 
reached the house where the Reynoldses 
as a family lived — or, to speak more cor- 
rectly, where they scrambled through 
existence in a hap-hazard manner — she 
walked into a small low-ceiled parlor, 
which held but one prominent article of 
furniture, and that a piano. At this pi- 
ano a gaunt man, with hair and beard 
dashed with gray, a sharp nose, and a 
pair of pathetic eyes, sat playing a strain 
from one of Mozart’s masses with a touch 
that brought out all the divine melody 
lurking in the harmony. He nodded and 
smiled when the children came in, but 
did not cease playing. Felix walked for- 
ward and slipped his arm round his neck. 
He was his father’s pride and favorite, 
and had as many caressing ways as a girl. 

“You ought to have come with us, 
papa,” he said. “ The country is so love- 
ly now. A walk would have helped you 
to rest.” 

“ I walk enough on six days,” an- 
swered Mr. Reynolds; “on the seventh 


“’TIS BUT A LITTLE FADED FLOWER. 


13 


I like to stay quietly with the piano. But 
you have brought hack flowers enough, 
my hoy.” 

“Yes; see, papa, how pretty and 
sweet ! ” cried the others, thronging 
round. 

Meanwhile Amy went up to a small 
mirror that held the last glow of sunset 
light in its depth, and looked at her re- 
flection — the color-flushed cheeks, the 
dark-gray eyes shining under long lashes, 
the rich masses of curling hair, and the 
wreath of wild-flowers crowning the fair 
picture. Then she turned to Hugh with 
a smile tliat broke up all the gravity of 
her face. 

“ The wreath is very becoming,” she 
said, “ and you have crowned me for vic- 
tory. But jewels will be better than 
flowers.” 


CHAPTER III. 

“’tis but a little faded flower.” 

Amt had been right in characterizing 
the Lathrops as “ very rich and fashion- 
able people ” — according to the standard 
of riches and fashion in Edgerton. They 
lived in a handsome house, with appoint- 
ments every way suggestive of wealth, 
were gay and hospitable, and therefore 
popular. Mr. Lathrop and his sons were 
“in business” on a large scale. Mrs. 
Lathrop and her daughters were also in 
business, if the duty of leading society 
could properly come under that head. 
That it is very often far more of a busi- 
ness than a pleasure, no one can doubt 
who has ever had the opportunity of ob- 
serving at close quarters the life of a fash- 
ionable woman. But to some natures 
there is a compensation for all attendant 
labor and cost in the mere possession of 
a power ; and that Mrs. Lathrop was one 
of these people, was patent to the dullest 
perception. 

In all details of life she was what is 
generally known as “a managing wom- 


an.” Her household was organized like 
a police force ; yet her rule was never 
oppressive, for she knew, exactly where 
authority ended and tyranny began. Al- 
ways suave, somewhat diplomatic, with a 
flne presence and a pair of large, white 
hands capable of holding the threads of 
many different interests, she was emi- 
nently fltted to administer the social af- 
fairs of Edgerton and preserve society 
from the chaos which always attends the 
want of a recognized leader. 

Her daughters gave promise of follow- 
ing the maternal footsteps. Two were 
in society — not at all pretty, but noted 
for their style, and, from their position, 

! always sure of receiving as much atten- 
tion as if they had been beauties. A 
younger daughter was not yet emanci- 
pated from the school-room. One of the 
two sons had taken unto himself a wife, 
with the hearty approval of his parents, 
since the lady — who was not an Edger- 
tonian — was the fortunate possessor of a 
considerable fortune in her own right. 

“If Edward will only marry as Judi-- 
ciously as Paul, I shall be truly grateful to 
Providence,” said Mrs. Lathrop, devoutly. 
But Edward, the younger son, was rather 
given to flirting with portionless girls, 
and sometimes disturbed his mother’s 
equanimity by declaring that he thought 
it his duty to bring a pretty wife into the 
family, since Paul had married one whose 
personal appearance no man could con- 
scientiously commend. 

Of Mr. Lathrop, the head of the 
household, there is little to be said fur- 
ther than that he was his wife’s most loyal 
admirer, and, though in no sense a hen- 
pecked husband, her opinion had more 
weight with him than that of any one 
else. In business matters he was keen, 
shrewd, and inclined to be hard, though 
always just. Socially he was genial, fond 
of display, and lavish with the means 
necessary to this end. Seen in his own 
house, a more agreeable host — notwith- 
standing the drawback of a little pom- 
posity — never wore a white waistcoat. 


14 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


or boasted one of those bald, glistening 
heads which impart such a benevolent 
aspect to the countenance. 

Under the shelter of the Lathrop roof 
Mr. Brian Marchmont, nephew of Mrs. 
Lathrop, had been sojourning nearly a 
week, on that Sunday afternoon when he 
met Amy Reynolds in the April woods. 
This young gentleman was one of those 
who have the reputation of “ brilliant 
abilities,” and there was a vague, general 
expectation in the minds of all who knew 
him that he would one day greatly dis- 
tinguish himself. Of the abilities there 
could be no question, and the expectation 
of distinction was stronger in the mind 
of Marchmont himself than in that of any 
one else. He was ambitious, and had 
already decided by what steps he would 
mount to the height he desired. They 
were not to be very diflBcult steps, for 
there was an element of epicureanism in 
the young man’s character which, under 
certain circumstances, might mar his plan 
of life. He had no fear of such an event, 
however. If belief in one’s own power 
is a first necessity for achieving worldly 
success, Marchmont was ready with that 
requisite. He had so far in life vaulted 
lightly over all obstacles, and lifted his 
head so high above the heads of those 
surrounding him, that he could scarcely 
be blamed for self-confidence. 

At the present time the errand on 
which he had come to Edgerton was well 
known. In the city where he lived he 
had, during the past winter, met Miss 
Waldron, the only child and heiress of 
her father, a man of large wealth. With 
Marchmont, as with a great many other 
aspiring men, the first step which he pro- 
posed to himself on his journey to the 
Temple of Fame was the step of marrying 
a fortune. 

“I have, comparatively speaking, no 
money, and if I waste my life in working 
for that, it will be too late after I have 
gained it to devote my higher powers to 
the objects I propose ; so it follows that I 
must marry a rich woman ! ” 


This was what he said to himself, and 
to the few friends who were admitted to 
intimacy with him. These friends, one 
and all, applauded his resolution. It is 
well known, however, that the seekers 
after rich women are, in point of number, 
altogether out of proportion to those de- 
sirable objects, so that unless a man has 
unusual advantages of person or manner, 
his chance of drawing a prize is exceed- 
ingly small. These advantages Brian 
Marchmont possessed. No one could 
deny that he was well-born, weU-bred, 
and above the ordinary rank and file of 
mankind in point of appearance. 

Although his aunt, Mrs. Lathrop, was 
in a measure attached to him, and cer- 
tainly proud of the abilities which he was 
supposed to possess, she would have wel- 
comed him more cordially if he had come 
to Edgerton for any other purpose than 
the one which brought him. Not that 
she did not consider his object a good and 
altogether praiseworthy one ; but it had 
been her cherished plan that her son 
should marry Miss Waldron, and though 
she was too sensible a woman not to 
recognize that all overtures to this end 
had been unmistakably rebuffed by the 
young lady, she had, nevertheless, a sore 
feeling in seeing the prize grasped be- 
fore her eyes by the hand of her own 
nephew. 

It was true, the prize had not yet been 
grasped ; but that Marchmont’s chance of 
success was better than that of any other 
suitor of the heiress, all who knew any- 
thing about the matter were agreed. 

On the Sunday evening already re- 
corded, Mr. Marchmont made his appear- 
ance at the Lathrop tea-table just as the 
church-bells were pealing out over the 
town on the soft, fiower-scented dusk. 

“Why, Brian, we have been wonder- 
ing what had become of you,” said Mr. 
Lathrop, looking up. “What have you 
been doing with yourself all the after- 
noon? ” 

“ I saw you asleep in the hammock 
after dinner,” said Edward Lathrop ; 


“’TIS BUT A LITTLE FADED FLOWER.” 


15 


but when T looked into it an hour or so 
later, you had vanished.” 

“ I felt an inclination to take a stroll,” 
said Marchmont; “therefore I left the 
hammock and wandered off. The woods 
are so delightful that I rambled farther 
than I intended, lost my way, and hence 
my late appearance.” 

“You don’t know what you missed 
by strolling off! ” cried Florence, the 
second daughter. “Beatrix Waldron has 
been here this afternoon, and Anna has 
gone home with her.” 

“ She would hardly have been likely 
to take me instead of Anna — would she ? ” 
asked Marchmont, quietly. 

“ Hardly ; but I thought it would 
grieve you to miss one glimpse of your 
divinity.” 

“And so you gave me the afflicting 
intelligence at once. Thanks for the con- 
sideration — but I don’t find my appetite 
impaired. — Eunice, my dear, may I ask 
what attracts your attention ? ” 

Eunice, a pale little maiden of fifteen, 
who sat opposite him, blushed, and point- 
ed to his button-hole. 

“ I was looking at that spray of crim- 
son honeysuckle. Cousin Brian,” she an- 
swered. “ It is pretty. Where did you 
get it ? ” 

“ I found it in the woods,” he replied. 
“ Is it uncommon ? Then, have it, pray.” 

He tossed it lightly across the table, 
and Eunice smiled her thanks. 

“ I have not seen any in a long time,” 
she said. “ I would get some and plant 
it in the garden if I knew where to find 
it.” 

But her cousin did not volunteer to 
show her where it was to be found. He 
glanced round the table, and, seeing that 
every one else had ceased eating, he said : 

“I beg that you will not let me detain 
you, Aunt Caroline. I should not have 
been such a late-comer if I had remem- 
bered that your hour was probably early 
on Sunday.” 

“In order to allow the servants, as 
well as ourselves, to go to church,” said 
2 


! Mrs. Lathrop. “We are a little later 
than usual on account of having waited 
some time for you, and, since you are 
kind enough to excuse us, I think it 
would be better, Florence, if we put on 
our bonnets at once.” 

Florence rose, and, with a rustle of 
silk, the ladies left the room. Marchmont 
looked at Edward Lathrop, and said, 
gravely : 

“Do you go to church twice a day, 
Ned?” 

“ Not unless there is some very partic- 
‘ular inducement,” answered that gentle- 
man, “ and not even then when the ther- 
mometer stands above seventy-five de- 
grees. I simply escort my mother and 
the girls to the church-door. That is 
what we will do to-night, if you have no 
objection, after which we will come back 
and smoke a cigar in peace and coolness.” 

A few minutes later Mrs. Lathrop and 
her daughter entered the drawing-room, 
whither the gentlemen had adjourned. 
Both were dressed beautifully, and the 
elder lady was buttoning her gloves. 

“Eunice has a headache, so I have al- 
lowed her to remain at home,” she said. 
— “Are you coming with us, my dear? ” 

“Not to-night, my dear,” said Mr. 
Lathrop. 

He always said, “ Not to-night,” as if 
he might be tempted to go on some future 
night ; but, so far, that occasion had not 
arrived, and Mrs. Lathrop was wise, and 
never asked when it would arrive. 

The young men escorted the ladies to 
the church-door, but declined an invita- 
tion to enter the edifice, where vivid gas- 
light streamed on crimson-carpeted aisles 
and crimson-cushioned seats. Then they 
strolled slowly back through the semi- 
darkness of the streets, past gardens from 
which the fragrance of roses and syringa, 
jasmine and honeysuckle, filled the air. 

“This is rather better than blinding 
gaslight and simmering heat,” said Ed- 
ward Lathrop, as they regained the house 
which they had left so shortly before. 
“Shall we sit on the piazza, and take a 


16 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


smoke ? My father and Eunice seem to 
be very well entertained.” 

Marchmont glanced through the draw- 
ing-room window, and smiled at the scene 
within. 

Mr. Lathrop, leaning back in a large 
chair, with a newspaper open on his knee, 
was dozing placidly, the light from the 
chandelier falling with brilliant effect on 
the bald top of his head; while, at the 
farther end of the apartment, Eunice was 
seated at the large, carved piano, playing 
a simple accompaniment as she sang, in a 
childish voice, “There is a land of pure 
delight.” 

From the force of contrast, the voice 
and song reminded Marchmont of the sil- 
ver tones that he had heard soar aloft 
in “ Gujus animam'''' so short a time be- 
fore. 

“ That girl could not have been much 
older than Eunice,” he thought, as he 
dropped the lace curtain and returned to 
his companion. 

“ Do you know anybody of the name 
of Reynolds in Edgerton, Ned ? ” he asked, 
after they were settled in their chairs with 
lighted cigars. 

“ I know Eunice’s music-teacher,” an- 
swered Lathrop. “Do you mean him? 
— a gaunt fellow, who plays the organ in 
the church we left a minute ago.” 

“ I thought there was an uncommon 
hand on that organ this morning,” said 
Marchmont. “And does his daughter sing 
there ? ” 

“ His daughter — pretty little Amy ? 1 
don’t think so. But how do you chance 
to know anything about her? ” 

Marchmont laughed. 

“I met 'her this afternoon in the 
woods,” he said. “It was an odd kind of 
adventure, and I did not mention it to my 
aunt, because I fancy she does not approve 
of unconventional ways and people.” 

“You might stake a good deal on 
that without much fear of losing,” said 
Lathrop; “and I don’t think she has a 
very good opinion of pretty Amy either.” 

“Why not?” 


“ If you have seen the girl, you might 
tell why not. The madre is great on 
making people walk a chalk -line, accord- 
ing to their station in life, which Amy — 
who is an out-and-out little Bohemian, 
and wild as a gypsy — will on no account 
think of doing. They have had one or 
two encounters — one was on the subject 
of attending Sunday-school, I believe — 
and Amy always came off with flying col- 
ors. Hence she is regarded in the light 
of a most reprehensible young person, you 
understand. But she is amazingly pretty 
— and piquant as pretty.” 

“Yes, she is very pretty,” assented 
Marchmont — at that moment he seemed 
to see again the winsome face with its 
wild-flower crown — “but she has some- 
thing better than her face. Do you know 
that she sings like an angel — pshaw I 
what do we know about angels ? — like a 
prima donna? ” 

“ Not I,” and it was very evident, even 
in the dim light, that Lathrop stared. 
“How the deuce did you find it out? 
You must have progressed in your ac- 
quaintance very rapidly — if you never saw 
her before this afternoon.” 

“I never saw her before this after- 
noon, and I came upon her most unex- 
pectedly then. It was out in the woods 
— she was sitting in a glen with no other 
companion than an awkward boy, singing 
a Tyrolean echo-song which I have often 
heard on the stage, but never better ren- 
dered. You may be sure I was aston- 
ished, and I could not help encoring when 
the song ended. She was somewhat em- 
barrassed at first, but, when I introduced 
myself, she was good enough to say she 
knew who the Lathrops were, and then 
she sang the ‘ Gujus animam ’ from Ros- 
sini’s ‘ Stabat Mater,’ and sang it di^dnely ! 
She has not only one of the finest voices 
I ever heard, but it has been remarkably 
well cultivated.” 

“ Reynolds is an excellent musician,’^ 
said Lathrop ; “at least, he has that rep- 
utation. I don’t know much about such 
things myself. And so little Amy said 


“ALTOGETHER AN ACCIDENT.” 


17 


that ‘she knew who the Lathrops were? ’ 
Upon my honor, that’s the best joke I’ve 
heard in an age ! I don’t really think I 
can keep it from the madre! ” 

“ It’s no joke at all,” said Marchmont, 

“ and I hope you won’t think of trying to 
make one out of it. The girl meant no 
impertinence. She said, quite proudly : 

‘ They are very rich, fashionable people, 
and I am the daughter of Mr. Reynolds, 
the music-teacher.’ She’s an amusing lit- 
tle witch. By-the-by, have you any idea 
who was the boy with her? She men- I 
tioned his name, but I have forgotten it.” 

“I have not the least idea,” replied 
Lathrop. “ My acquaintance with her is 
of the slightest possible description, and 
her friends are quite unknown to me. 
Reynolds has several sons. It was prob- 
ably one of them.” 

Marchmont knew better, but he said 
no more of Amy or her companion. Per- [ 
haps the subject dropped from his ■ 
thoughts. Certainly when he spoke ' 
again it was of something very different ; 
and so they talked and smoked until the 
gate at the foot of the lawn opened and 
closed, and voices and steps approached 
the house. 

“There come my mother and Flor- ^ 
ence, with somebody in attendance,” said 
Lathrop, rising. 

The somebody proved to be a young 
man of smooth face and immaculate dress, 
who was thought to have evangelical lean- 
ings, and known to entertain matrimo- 
nial intentions toward the second Miss 
Lathrop. I 

This young lady had no objection to ■ 
a mild flirtation after having performed 
her duty by going to church in the most 
exemplary manner; so she retired with 
her captive to the end of the drawing- 
room, while Eunice was at once dis- 
patched by her mother to bed. 

“Close the piano, Edward,” she add- 
ed. “It is very injurious to an instru- 
ment to stand open.” 

Edward sauntered obediently to the 
piano and closed it. Then he returned. 


holding in his fingers the faded spray of 
honeysuckle which had already changed 
owners twice. 

“I believe this is yours, Brian,” he 
said, extending it with a smile to his cous- 
in. “ Eunice left it by the keyboard, but 
I thought I would bring it to you, since 
you might like to preserve it.” 

Marchmont took the spray and tossed 
it carelessly into the empty fireplace. 

“Faded flowers are useless things,” 
he said. “ When they have served their 
purpose, the only thing to do is to throw 
them' away.” 


CHAPTER IV. 
“altogether an accident.” 

“I AM going to drive to Cedarwood 
for Anna this morning, Brian. Will you 
come with me? ” 

It was Florence Lathrop who said 
this, pausing in the hall the next day, af- 
ter breakfast. 

Her cousin, who was in the act of 
lighting a cigar, looked up at once. 

“ Certainly I will, with pleasure,” he 
replied. “ When do you mean to start ? ” 

“In an hour or two — not before. 
They never breakfast early at Cedarwood. 
There are no business-men there 

“It is too bad that there should be 
some here to rouse you for anything so 
barbarous as a nine-o’clock breakfast,” 
said her brother. “ If you are not going 
for an hour or two, you can call for Brian 
at the commission-house. He is going to 
walk down-town with me.” 

“Very well,” replied the young lady, 
sailing languidly up-stairs. 

Mr. Lathrop emerged from the break- 
fast-room at the moment, drew on his 
gloves, exchanged his benevolent air for 
a decided one, and said, “We are ten min- 
utes behind time,” and walked quickly out 
of the front-door. 

The younger men followed, and the 
three took their way together into the 


18 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


business portion of the town, filling the 
fresh air, as they walked, with the triple 
smoke of their cigars. 

“ Lathrop & Sons ” were engaged in 
a large wholesale commission business; 
and as the two members of the firm, ac- 
companied by their idle relative, entered 
the great, dingy warehouse, filled with 
bales of cotton, hogsheads of tobacco, 
grain, and other products, it chanced that 
the first person they met was an under- 
sized boy of seventeen or eighteen, whose 
face had an oddly familiar look to Mar.ch- 
mont, though for a moment he was’ puz- 
zled to think when or where he had seen 
it. 

“ Dinsmore, I shall want you in a min- 
ute,” said Mr. Lathrop, in his most brisk 
tones. “ Come to the counting-room.” 

Dinsmore! Marchmont said nothing, 
but he thought to himself that this was 
the awkward boy who had been Amy 
Reynolds’s companion on the afternoon 
before, and who had glared at him with 
such amusing indignation. For that mat- 
ter, his eyes had by no means an amiable 
expression now, as they rested an in- 
stant on the well-dressed young gentle- 
man, before he turned and followed Mr. 
Lathrop. 

An hour or two later, Marchmont was 
reading the morning papers in his cous- 
in’s counting-room when one of the clerks 
appeared with the intelligence that Miss 
Lathrop was at the door waiting for him. 

He rose with alacrity. Something in 
the nature of his surroundings oppressed 
him with a sense of weight and repug- 
nance. 

“ How can you muster philosophy 
enough to think of spending the best part 
of your life in such a place as this ? ” he 
could not refrain from saying to Edward 
Lathrop ; but the latter only laughed. 

“The prospect does not overwhelm 
me,” he said, “though I grant you it 
would be pleasanter to live at Cedarwood 
on ten thousand a year. But everybody 
isn’t a Prince Charming, or a Prince For- 
tunate either.” 


This good matured sarcasm effectually 
silenced Marchmont. He knew that if 
there had been the faintest chance of se- 
curing Miss Waldron and Cedarwood, his 
cousin would have grasped that chance as 
eagerly as himself; but, nevertheless, he 
could not help feeling that the labor 
which was so distasteful to his fastidious, 
pleasure-loving nature, was, to say the 
least, far more honorable than the gentle- 
manly profession of fortune-hunting. 

These uncomfortable feelings were 
evanescent, however. It was with a 
sense of relief that he emerged into the 
sunshine and entered the waiting carriage, 
where Miss Lathrop sat with a handker- 
chief at her nose ; for there were several 
tons of fertilizers in the neighborhood, the 
odor of which was strikingly unlike that 
of Araby the Blest. 

“ What a disagreeable part of the town 
this is!” she said. “I always dislike to 
come down here ; and how papa and the 
boys can be content to spend their days 
in that horrid place, I don’t understand.” 

It occurred to Marchmont that this 
was rather ungracious on the part of one 
whose carriage and horses, silk dress and 
lace-covered parasol, were all the direct 
proceeds of the “ horrid place ” in ques- 
tion; but he only said, “It strikes me 
rather in that light, but I suppose I am 
one of the drones of the world — and you 
know they are not a very estimable 
class.” 

“But you don’t mean to be always a 
drone,” said she, smiling; for they had 
left the fertilizers behind, and she was 
now able to smile again. 

Marchmont thought this very true. 
He did not mean to be always a drone. 
On the contrary, he meant to do work 
more important as well as more agreeable 
than selling cotton and tobacco on com- 
mission. He did not remember that such 
an idea is one of the most common and 
shallow devices of self-love. There are 
few of us who do not excuse our present 
shortcomings by reflecting on the great 
things which we mean to do in the future 


ALTOGETHER AN ACCIDENT.” 


19 


— until the future has become the past, 
when we think what great things we 
might have done had circumstances only 
been more favorable — Fate kinder, the 
world more appreciative. 

Neither of these two butterflies of 
prosperity felt inclined to complain of 
Fate or the world this morning, however. 
The carriage rolled as if on velvet, the 
wheels and harness glittered in the sun- 
shine, the glory of spring was all about 
them, birds were singing in the delicate 
leafage of the trees, flowers were bloom- 
ing in all directions, windows were open, 
light costumes were out in force. Miss 
Lathrop, who was bowing now and then 
from under her parasol to passing ac- 
quaintances, suddenly said, with the air 
of one whom a sudden recollection 
strikes : 

“ Andrew ” (to the coachman), “ drive 
to Mrs. Crenshaw’s boarding-house. — Bri- 
an, will you excuse me if I detain you for 
a few minutes ? Mamma asked me to call 
and see how a sick lady, who is boarding 
there, is to-day. She is a stranger in Ed- j 
gerton, but belongs to quite nice people, j 
so, of course, we are anxious to pay her 
every attention.” 

“ A modern rendition of the good Sa- 
maritan,” said Brian, smiling. “ My time 
is at your disposal altogether ; don’t hesi- 
tate to detain me as long as you like. I | 
could be happy on the door-step to-day, ! 
basking like a Neapolitan in the sun- 
shine.” 

The carriage, as he spoke, turned into 
a street where the buildings, though re- 
spectable, were by no means imposing, 
but where there were many shade-trees 
and a few good residences. The largest 
of these was a house which opened on the 
street, and had a neglected flower-garden 
at the side. Here the carriage stopped, 
and Marchmont, springing out, assisted his 
cousin to alight. Then, having rung the 
door-bell and seen her admitted, he re- 
turned to the pavement and sauntered 
under the flickering shade of the elms by 
the low garden-fence. 


However neglected, all gardens in 
which there are flowers must be pretty in 
April, and this garden was no exception 
to the rule. The syringa-bushes were 
covered with white, fragrant blossoms; 
bees were humming over the honey- 
suckle ; there was a large bed where lil- 
ies-of-the-valley lifted their delicate white 
bells amid broad green leaves; and the 
untrimmed rose-bushes were full of blos- 
soms. 

Bordering the fence, and on a level 
with it, was a luxuriant Enonymus hedge, 
from the other side of which Marchmont 
heard the voices of two invisible and prob- 
ably liliputian personages. 

“The flowers wonH stay on, Hetty,” 
said one. “You go and ask your mother 
for some more string.” 

“Mother said I mustn’t come and 
bother her any more,” answered another 
small but positive voice. “ You go and 
ask Mr. Tratford for some.” 

“ Mr. Traflford’s gone to walk — I saw 
him go,” said Number One. “But I’ll 
go and ask Clara for some.” 

“ Be sure and make haste back,” said 
Number Two. 

Following this came the patter of small 
feet, a gate in the fence suddenly swung 
open, and a child of not more than seven 
years, with a glittering mane of yellow 
curls, sprang out on the sidewalk. Her 
companion’s voice followed her, saying : 

“Shut the gate, Mariette, or the pigs 
will get in.” 

Mariette, who was darting away with- 
out this necessary precaution, turned 
back, but Marchmont closed the gate, 
and then said, with a smile : 

“Are you Alice from Wonderland? 
You look like her.” 

“ No, I’m not ; but I know all about 
her,” she answered, quickly, breaking in- 
to a laugh, and gazing up at him with 
fearless eyes of myosotis blue. “ Mr. 
Tratford gave me the book — she went to 
Wonderland, and through the looking- 
glass, too.” 

“ Did she ?’’ said Marchmont. “ I never 


20 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


followed her that far. But are you cer- 
tain you are not she ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” she replied, with another 
laugh. “ I am Mariette Reynolds.” 

“ Reynolds ! ” repeated Marchmont. 
He did not say to himself, “ Cest la fata- 
litef but he certainly thought that Fate, 
or something else, was determined to keep 
the pretty songstress of the woods in his 
mind. ‘‘Have you a sister named Amy, 
and does she sing ? ” he went on, after a 
moment, as they walked along side by 
side. 

“ Of course I have,” answered Mari- 
ette, surprised that any one should ask 
such a question. “ Do you know my sister 
Amy? Mr. Trafford says she sings like 
a — I’ve forgotten the name exactly, but 
some kind of a bird.” 

“ Who the deuce is Mr. Trafford ? ” 
Marchmont felt inclined to ask, but he 
restrained himself, and only said : “ I am 
afraid that your sister Amy would not 
allow me to say that I know her, but I 
have heard her sing. Where do you 
live? ” 

“Here,” said Mariette, indicating a 
house adjoining the garden which they 
were passing. 

It was a small, old-fashioned dwelling, 
opening immediately on the street, with 
high, narrow windows, and a generally 
shabby and uncomfortable aspect. It 
spoke so plainly of poverty — that poverty 
which manages to keep bread-and-butter 
on its table, but has not a sixpence to 
spare for the adorning graces of life — 
that Marchmont’s fastidious epicurean- 
ism felt a thrill of much the same disgust 
which he had experienced in the ware- 
house of Lathrop & Sons. 

His interest in the embryo prima donna 
began to abate, but nevertheless he walked 
on by Mariette’s side, thinking that he 
would turn as soon as he reached the 
door of the house and saw the little 
maiden within it. 

But, if not fatality, what was it that 
brought Amy to the window of the little 
parlor, and framed the piquant loveliness 


of her face between the chintz curtains, 
to startle Marchmont, like a gleam of rich 
color in a gray landscape ? 

He stopped short, with an exclama- 
tion, and lifted his hat. 

“ Miss Reynolds ! ” he said. “ How 
fortunate I am ! I did not hope to meet 
you again so soon ! ” 

Amy was not much surprised — a fact 
which was very natural, since the win- 
dows on the side of the house command- 
ed an excellent view of Mrs. Crenshaw’s 
garden and the street along which March- 
mont had been sauntering. 

She had been engaged in dusting, with 
a towel tied round her head, when she 
first saw him, and she had flushed rose- 
red, cast the towel into a dark corner, 
darted to the small mirror, given a few 
hurried touches to her hair — which was 
always ready to curl, and never prettier 
than when left to its own devices — and 
then established herself at the window, 
with an open music-book in her lap. 

At his salutation the long lashes lifted 
from her mischievous gray eyes. 

“0 Mr. Marchmont! ” she said, with 
a slight start. ‘*How do you do this 
morning? — and where did you And Mari- 
ette?” 

“Mariette found mef he replied, “in 
a very badly -bored condition, dawdling 
along the street yonder. I am waiting 
for my- cousin, who has gone into the 
house of your neighbor to pay a visit.” 

“ Ah 1 ” said Amy. “ I was wonder- 
ing what could have brouglit you into 
this part of the town.” 

“My presence here is altogether an 
accident,” he said ; “ but within the last 
two minutes it has begun to assume the 
appearance of a very lucky accident. I 
dreamed of sirens all last night, and you 
can tell, I am sure, who was to blame for 
that.” 

“ How can 1 tell? ” asked Amy, inno- 
cently. “ Perhaps you went to church, 
and the choir — ” 

He interrupted her by a laugh. 

“ Pray don’t be so severe on the sirens 


“ALTOGETHER AN ACCIDENT.” 


21 


as to liken them — or to suppose that I 
would liken them — to any well-inten- 
tioned band of amateur squallers. Be- 
sides, you know better — you know that 
sirens don’t sing in village choirs, but 
they are to be met sometimes in wooded 
glens on April afternoons.” 

“ Happy sirens ! ” said Amy. with a 
soft little sigh. • “ They knew their songs 
intuitively, and were never obliged to 
learn to sing by note. How I hate notes ! ” 
she added, glancing down at the page of 
score in her lap. 

“Drudgery is always disagreeable,” 
said Marchmont — and he glanced down at 
the score also — “ but especially when 
connected with harmony. What have 
you there ? ” 

“ A song papa has just given me to 
learn. When he gives me a song for the 
first time, he always locks the piano, so 
that I have no opportunity to learn the 
notes by the keys. Then I have to sing 
it for him, and then he teaches me how 
to sing it.” 

“ All of which is very essential to pre- 
pare the foundation of your future great 
ness,” said the listener, smiling. “ And 
have you sung the song yet for papa ? ” 

“Not yet, but I must to-night.’’ 

“ I suppose I dare not be bold enough 
to ask you to sing it for me now ? ” 

“ What, here ? ” The gray eyes opened 
to their widest extent, while the pretty 
lips laughed. “ That is impossible ; every- 
body along the street would hear — and 
see me ! ” 

“ But, if you were hospitable enough 
to allow me to come in — ” 

“You are not in earnest,” she said. 
“How could you tell when your cousin 
finished paying her visit, if you came in 
to hear me sing? ” 

“That is very true,” he replied; “at 
present it is unfortunately impossible for 
me to have that pleasure ; but if I return 
this afternoon* will you admit me then, 
and let me hear your lesson before Mon- 
sieur votre pere docs so ? ” 

Amy hesitated. The prospect was al- 


luring — how alluring, those of older years 
and diflferent rearing can scarcely un- 
derstand — but an instinct of propriety 
warned even this “ out-and-out Bohe- 
mian,” as Edward Lathrop called her, 
against it. Seeing her hesitation, March- 
mont would not have been a man if he 
had not instantly conceived an added de- 
sire to carry his point. 

“ You did me the honor to remark, 
yesterday afternoon, that you sang for 
me because I seemed to be musically cul- 
tivated,” he said; “will not the same 
reason plead for me now? My culture 
is not very great, so far as any personal 
acquirement is concerned, but I have heard 
all the best singers of the day, and I can 
give you a few needful hints, perhaps, 
with regard to your method.” 

“ Have you ever heard any one sing 
this ? ” she asked, holding the score tow- 
ard him. 

“ Certainly I have,” he answered, 
glancing at it (and whether the assent 
was strictly true or not, Mr. March- 
mont’s conscience alone could tell) ; “ I 
heard Carlotta Patti sing it at a concert 
in — ” 

He paused abruptly, not because his 
memory or his invention failed, but be- 
cause at that moment Miss Florence La- 
throp’s gray silk dress and lace-covered 
parasol appeared on the steps of the Cren- 
shaw house. 

“ I see my cousin has come out, and I 
must not detain her,” he said. “ I will 
call this afternoon — at four, shall I say? 
— and I trust you will not refuse me ad- 
mittance.” 

He lifted his hat, gave one last glance 
out of the eyes which Amy admired, and 
walked away. Miss Lathrop, who, like 
her sister, was a little near-sighted, per- 
ceived him first as he was advancing along 
the sidewalk by the garden-fence. 

“ I am afraid your patience has been 
quite exhausted, Brian,” she said, when he 
approached and handed her into the car- 
riage. “Mrs. Ripley — poor woman! — 
is very unwell this morning, and she kept 


22 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


me a long time listening to a detailed ac- 
count of all that she suffers. One should 
be patient with that habit of invalids, I 
suppose. It is all the pleasure they have. 
— Drive to Cedarwood, now, Andrew.” 


CHAPTER V. 

THE HEIRESS OF CEDARWOOD. 

When the carriage rolled into the 
gates through which the Reynolds chil- 
dren gazed so wistfully the evening be- 
fore, its occupants saw two feminine 
figures, escorted by a masculine one, 
crossing the lawn toward the house. 

This house was a large, handsome 
building, in what architectural books call 
the “Norman villa” style, evidently of 
late erection, and containing all modern 
improvements and conveniences. The 
cedars, from which its name was derived, 
stood in a group on the close-shorn lawn, 
immediately in front of the drawing-room 
windows— three splendid patriarchs, un 
der the shade of which a rustic seat was 
placed. The grounds were of great ex- 
tent, and, on this April morning, full of 
the brightest beauty of the spring. 

“Yonder are Anna and Beatrix and 
General Waldron,” said Miss Lathrop, 
elevating one of those glasses which the 
French call a pince-nez^ and regarding the 
three figures. “No doubt the general 
has been showing some of his landscape- 
gardening. He is always having trees 
moved, or hedges set out, or something 
of the kind done. It is a great bore to 
be taken to see them.” 

“Why has General Waldron been al- 
lowed to remain unmarried so long ? ” 
asked Marchmont, looking at that gen- 
tleman, who, with his erect figure and 
strongly-marked face, was manifestly a 
grand seigneur^ though he wore a loose 
linen coat and a broad palmetto hat. “ I 
am surprised that no kind lady has taken 
compassion on his widowed condition.” 


Miss Lathrop laughed. “ It would be 
impossible to enumerate the number of 
ladies who have desired to console him,” 
she said ; “but he has so stoutly declined 
to be consoled, that they have at last aban- 
doned him in despair. — Good-morning ! ” 
she added, bowing to the group of pedes- 
trians whom they were now approaching. 
“ I see that the charming day has drawn 
you all out to enjoy it.” 

“Yes,” said the general, lifting his 
broad hat with the air of a cavalier ; “ I 
have just taken Miss Lathrop and my 
daughter to see some improvements which 
I have made in the grounds. Are you 
interested in landscape-gardening, Mr. 
Marchmont ? ” 

“ Very much, indeed,” answered 
Marchmont, promptly. The carriage had 
by this time drawn up before the portico, 
which was the principal entrance to the 
house, and he was assisting his cousin to 
the ground as he spoke. When he turned, 
Miss Waldron shook her parasol at him. 

“Take care!” she said; “if you tell 
papa that, he will carry you off at once to 
see his improvements.” 

“I should enjoy seeing them,” March- 
mont replied, readily ; for at that moment 
he saw his way clearly to a clever finesse. 

“ Come, then,” said the general, 
greatly pleased. “We’ll walk down and 
look at them at once. — Miss Florence, 
can we not tempt you to accompany .us ? ” 

This invitation Miss Florence graceful- 
ly but decidedly declined. Not regard- 
ing General Waldron in the light of a 
possible father-in-law, she saw no neces- 
sity — as she afterward remarked to her 
sister — for tanning her complexion by 
walking over the grounds with him. — 
“And I am sorry, Brian,” she added, 
“but it will be impossible for us to wait 
for you long ; both Anna and myself have 
a positive engagement in Edgerton.” 

“Don’t think of waiting for me at 
all,” responded her cousin, calmly; “I 
should prefer to walk. As I remarked to 
you some time ago, on such a day as this 
one cannot have too much of sunshine.” 


THE HEIRESS OF CEDARWOOD. 


23 


More than an hour elapsed before the 
general and his willing victim returned ; 
by that time the Lathrop equipage had 
vanished, and when Mr. Marchmont, in a 
somewhat heated and very tired condition, 
made his appearance in the drawing-room, 
he found Miss W aldron alone. The large, 
cool apartment, so darkly toned, so fra- 
grant with flowers, so free from glare of 
any kind, was in itself refreshing; and 
it was still more refreshing to be met by 
a handsome woman, with amused yet sin- 
cere compassion. 

“ I have been really uneasy about 
you, Mr. Marchmont,” she said, smiling. 

“ When papa mounts his hobby, he is apt 
to be a little inconsiderate ; and he kept 
you so long, I began to fear lest you 
might have fallen by the wayside with a 
sunstroke. Pray take this chair, which 
for comfort I can recommend, and let me 
give you a fan.” 

“ How delightfully kind you are ! ” 
said Marchmont, accepting both the chair 
and the fan. “ Pardon me if I say that I 
have, indeed, had a most fatiguing time. 
After inspecting the landscape-gardening, 

I was taken to see an imported Devon 
bull, which glared in a manner unpleas- 
antly suggestive of tossing; then to a 
bottom which has been recently drained 
and put under cultivation on the most ! 
scientific principles; then to a new or- i 
chard, and finally to a model dairy.” 

Miss Waldron laughed again. 

“How unconscionable of papa! ” she 
said. “ And your cousins have gone, too 1 * 
I am afraid your visit to Cedarwood this 
morning does not strike you in the light 
of a success.” 

“On the contrary, it strikes me very 
much in that light now^’'"' responded 
Marchmont. “ I am glad that my cousins 
are gone — I meant them to go ; else, per- 
haps, your father might not have found 
me so deeply interested in meadow-lands 
and dairies.” 

“For shame! ” said Miss Waldron, 
but the color deepened on her cheek, the 
gmile on her lip, as she spoke. 


Seen thus, she was a very handsome 
woman, this heiress of Cedarwood. A 
stately, mature-looking woman for her 
years — she was only twenty-four on her 
last birthday — but with nothing hard or 
arrogant in manner or appearance. She 
was invariably self-possessed, and, per- 
haps, a trifle too decided in speech and 
bearing; but these things followed, as 
matters of course, from her tempera- 
ment, as well as from her position in life. 
In figure she was tall, with a more com- 
manding than graceful presence, though 
no one could accuse her of absolutely 
lacking the latter attribute. Her face 
was clear-cut as a cameo, and indicated 
an excellent mind, without intellectual 
brilliancy, and a generous, upright nature, 
impatient of shams, scorning deception. 
Under the broad, benignant brow were 
set a pair of dark eyes often full of satir- 
ical light; the nose was large, but not 
heavy, with delicate, arched nostrils ; 
while the mouth was altogether sweet 
and womanly, with that dark down on 
the upper lip which is so common on 
French and Spanish feminine faces. Miss 
Waldron had neither French nor Spanish 
blood, but she was a brunette of the most 
pronounced type ; and her color, when it 
came, was the rich pomegranate flush of 
the Southern skies. 

This color was glowing in her cheeks 
now, and giving lustre to her eyes. She 
was njost becomingly dressed, and, as she 
leaned back in a large, luxurious chair, 
with the rich room stretching away in 
the dim background behind her, March- 
mont’s aesthetic tastes were thoroughly 
gratified. This was what he liked — 
beauty adorned by art in the highest 
possible degree, and the manner of a 
thorough woman of the world. 

There could be no doubt that Beatrix 
j Waldron would grace worthily any posi- 
tion to which she might be exalted — 
I which was a very essential point to a man 
' at once so ambitious and so fastidious. 
I Ho degree of wealth x^ould have tempted 
I him to marry an underbred woman, and 


24 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


the necessity must have been very great 
which could have induced him to think 
of marrying a plain one. 

“ Y^ou will remain to luncheon, of 
course,” Miss Waldron went on, “and 
afterward papa will take pleasure, I am 
sure, in driving you into Edgerton.” 

“ I will remain to luncheon very will- 
ingly,” Marchmont replied, “but you 
must allow me to decline being driven 
into Edgerton. I was quite sincere in 
telling Florence that I prefer the walk — 
especially if I take a short cut through 
the fields which your father was kind 
enough to show me.” 

“ It is a route which all our friends 
take when they come to see us on foot,” 
said the heiress, “ and, unless I am mis- 
taken, yonder is one coming now.” 

Marchmont turned his head to look 
out of the window through which she 
was gazing, and, greatly to his disgust, 
perceived a man approaching the house, 
who, from the direction in which he came, 
had plainly crossed the fields. 

“ It is Mr. Archer, I think,” said Miss 
Waldron. “Do you know him? — I sup- 
pose not,” as Marchmont uttered a neg- 
ative. “ He is a hard-working young 
lawyer, who goes into society very little. 
Papa thinks highly of his ability, and has 
trusted a great deal of business to him. 
Probably he has come on some matter re- 
lating to it now.” 

“ Then he will not disturb us,” said 
Marchmont, in a tone of relief. 

“ Are you so comfortable ? ” asked 
Miss Waldron. “ I am sorry that you must 
be disturbed in any event, for here comes 
my little page to say that luncheon is 
ready. — Go and find your master, Rex. — 
We need not wait, Mr. Marchmont; papa 
is in the library, no doubt.” 

She rose, and while Marchmont and 
herself crossed the drawing-room, the 
little page of whom she spoke — a mulatto 
boy dressed in livery — darted to the li- 
brary. So it chanced that, when they 
reached the hall, they found the gentle- 
man who had been seen from the window 


standing in the open door, waiting the 
appearance of a servant. 

Miss Waldron greeted him very gra- 
ciously : 

“Good-morning, Mr. Archer. You 
are just in time for luncheon. Come with 
us, pray. Let me introduce Mr. March- 
mont.” 

Mr. Archer acknowledged the intro- 
duction, and then said : 

“ Thank you. Miss Waldron, but I will 
not come in. I only want to seethe gen- 
eral a few minutes on business, and — ” 

“ Business always comes better after 
I the inner man has been refreshed,” said 
j the general’s voice in the rear. “Non- 
j sense, man ! come in to luncheon. I know 
I your abstemious habits, but you must at 
I least take a cracker and a glass of wine 
i after such a walk.” 

I Mr. Archer made no further demur, 

; but followed, with his host, the trailing 
sweep of Miss Waldron’s dress across the 
hall. 

I The room which they entered was 
’ very handsome, and the pretty lunch- 
: table was like a picture, as it stood glit- 
tering with crystal and china. 

When they sat down, Marchmont 
looked at the young lawyer with that 
sense of distrust which becomes the suit- 
or of an heiress. He saw no material for 
a rival, however. A gentleman unmis- 
takably was Mr. Archer, but evidently a 
man entirely unaccustomed to those easy 
habitudes of society which sat upon 
Marchmont himself like a garment. A 
refined, thoughtful face, with something 
of the keenness which is always apparent 
in the physiognomy of the born lawyer, 
and which here was chiefly expressed by 
the hazel eyes and attenuated nose — this 
was what he noted, together with a man- 
j ner reserved almost to stiffness, and a coat 
so much worn that it fairly reached the 
point of shabbiness. 

It was characteristic of General Wal- 
dron and his daughter that they treated 
the wearer of this shabby coat with a 
courtesy as cordial as if he had been a 


THE HEIRESS OF CEDARWOOD. 


25 


millionaire, under the influence of which 
Mr. Archer’s reserve melted somewhat. 
There was nothing shy or awkward about 
him, yet he felt both as he listened to 
Marchmont’s flow of small-talk. 

Few things have a more paralyzing 
effect upon a man of action than to meet 
a man of society under circumstances like 
these ; and Archer was conscious of a 
sense of inferiority, which he could not 
possibly have felt at any other time or 
in any other place. 

It was a relief when General Waldron 
began to speak of topics with wdiich he 
was familiar, leaving Miss Waldron and 
Marchmont to pursue their conversation 
aside. 

“I am inclined to think that your 
opinion is correct with regard to the X 
and Y Railroad, Archer,” he said. “I 
was talking to Mr. Trafford about it a few 
days ago, and he is sure that the stock 
will prove a paying investment before 
very long. I know of nobody whose 
opinion on such a subject has more value 
than his.” 

“ Certainly he has judged very shrewd- 
ly for himself,” said Archer. “Xoman 
has invested capital with greater success. 
I heard his wealth computed at a million 
the other day.” 

“An exaggeration, I think,” said the 
general, filling a glass of sparkling wine. 
“ But he is wealthy, beyond a doubt, and 
shrewd. There has been some talk, you 
know% about the unsoundness of the man- 
ufacturing company here, which has most 
likely brought him to Edgerton. If he 
sells his shares, I shall sell mine.” 

“ It will be at a great sacrifice.” 

“Better that than lose the whole.” 

Of this conversation only one name 
caught Marchmont’s ear with a familiar 
sound, and that was “ Trafford.” For a 
minute he was unable to remember where 
he had lately heard it, until he thought of 
little Mariette Reynolds, and then he sud- 
denly became aware that Miss Waldron 
was talking to him. 

“You are very fond of music, are you 


not, Mr. Marchmont? Xay, don’t an- 
swer — the question was foolishly framed. 
Everybody professes to be ‘ fond of mu- 
sic.’ I meant to say, you know a good 
deal of music — do you not ? ” 

“You alarm my modesty by such a 
formidable question,” he answered. “ I 
know something of music — not a great 
deal, by any means.” 

“ Do you sing at all ? ” 

“ Not in the least. Nature only gave 
me the capability of admiring the singing 
of others.” 

“ It is a capability which she denies 
to many people. Papa, there, does not 
care a straw for the best music in the 
world, and does not know soprano from 
contralto, or tenor from base. But you 
wonder what all this leads to. Briefly, I 
am meditating a musical entertainment, 
or, at least, an entertainment which shall 
be in part musical ; and I wish to secure 
a good critic-in-chief.” 

“To the extent of my limited ability, 
I shall be happy to serve in the position. 
What is your programme ? ” 

“ I will not bore you with it now. It 
is not fully matured, and immature things 
should never be published. If you remain 
in Edgerton two or three weeks longer, 
you will probably hear all about it.” 

A few minutes later they left the din- 
ing-room, and General Waldron walked 
with Mr. Archer to the library, while 
Miss Waldron and her companion paused 
in the hall, where, through several open 
doors, the golden brightness of the day 
was fully revealed, and multitudinous 
sweet odors were borne in on the soft 
tricksy breezes. 

“ It is a shame to spend such a day in 
the house,” said the young lady, taking 
up a garden-hat. “ Are you still exhaust- 
ed by the tramp papa gave you, Mr. 
Marchmont, or would you like to accom- 
pany me to the fernery ? I believe you 
have not seen it yet, and it is my show- 
place.” 

“ I have entirely recovered from my 
fatigue,” Marchmont answered, “and I 


26 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


shall be glad to see the fernery, or any- 
thing else that you choose to show me.” 

To the fernery, therefore, they took 
their way. It deserved to be a show- 
place, if only for the refreshment which 
it afforded them when they came into its 
shade and coolness from the noonday glare 
and heat. There were an abundance of 
rocks made damp by trickling water, and 
the green plumy grace of ferns in pro- 
fusion. 

“We can fancy ourselves in a moun- 
tain-glen,” said Miss Waldron, after her 
companion had expressed his admiration. 
“ The mountains only are lacking.” 

“ And that is a trifle when we have 
the rocks and ferns,” said Marchmont. 
“I congratulate myself afresh upon hav- 
ing sent Anna and Florence back to Edg- 
erton without me ! I had an instinct of 
something charming in store for me ; and 
I never yet followed my instinct and was 
deceived.” 

“You are very kind,” said Miss Wal- 
dron, “but I can’t help suspecting that, 
even while making these pretty speeches, 
you are, perhaps, putting the fernery in 
the same class with papa’s model dairy.” 

“ I never justify myself when I am 
suspected,” said Marchmont ; “ I always 
leave circumstances to do that for me. 
Shall we sit down? This is an improve- 
ment on a mountain-glen — and, I may 
add, on the model dairy — inasmuch as 
there are seats here for the indolent; and 
I am always indolent when I find myself 
in an agreeable place.” 

Miss Waldron assented. 

“ We can sit down,” she said, “ while 
I show you some of my prettiest Varie- 
ties of ferns. Do you know much about 
them ! Here is the maiden’s-hair, with 
its delicate ebony stem ; this is the beech- 
fern, this the cheilanthes, and here is the 
beautiful little — Mr. Marchmont, I am 
instructing you, and you are not listening 
to me at all ! ” 

“A thousand pardons! ” said March- 
mont, who was looking at her instead of 
the ferns. “I was, indeed, not paying 


proper attention to what you were say- 
ing, for I was thinking — shall I tell you 
what I was thinking ? ” 

“ Your thoughts might not interest 
me much more than my ferns have inter- 
ested you,” she answered, lightly. 

“Probably not, but still I should like 
to tell you — though I scarcely fancy you 
need to be told — what they were. I can 
think of but one thing when I am with 
you, and that is — yourself! ” 

“Am I a thing?” she asked, with a 
laugh, while a soft flush rose into her 
cheeks. “You are a flatterer; and since 
you are not at all interested in the ferns, 
we had better go back to the house.” 

“ Pray don’t ! ” said Marchmont, eager- 
ly. “ I am no ^ a flatterer. You know — 
or you ought to know — that I could not 
flatter you if I tried. I should have told 
you long ago that I love you passionately, 
if I had not lacked the opportunity, and 
perhaps the courage, to do so. But I can- 
not be silent any longer. I love you so 
much that I must ask if there is any 
hope of winning you? ” The earnestness 
and passion with which he spoke were 
not simulated, for Beatrix Waldron was a 
prize well worth winning, apart from the 
wealth which made her chief attraction ; 
and the man who addressed her was spe- 
cially fitted to appreciate this. There are 
many worse counterfeits of love afloat in 
the world than the sentiment which he 
felt when, with his last words, he took 
her hand and kissed it. 

She did not draw it from his clasp, but 
when he lifted his head he found her dark 
eyes fastened on him with a steady grav- 
ity which did not augur well, he thought, 
for his hopes. If the lashes had drooped 
on the flushed clieeks, he would have felt 
that success was in his grasp. But that 
glance was not calculated to inspire such 
a conviction ; there was too much of the 
woman of the world apparent in it — of 
the woman who had heard many other 
men utter such words as these. If he had 
suspected how quickly her heart was 
beating just then, he would have been re- 


THE HEIRESS OF CEDARWOOD. 


27 


assured; but he did not suspect it, and 
her voice, when she spoke, did not betray 
the fact. 

“ I cannot say that you surprise me, 
Mr. Marchmont, for that would be foolish 
and untrue. But I am sorry that you 
have said this. We have been very good 
friends — now we must be something else. 
And I hardly know how to answer you.” 

“Then you do not love me?” said 
Marchmont, with a pang of keen disap- 
pointment. “ I was mad enough to 
hope — ” 

He broke off short ; but no rounded 
sentences could have pleaded his cause 
so well as that pause, and the look which 
accompanied it. This look went straight 
as an arrow to Beatrix’s heart, and her 
lips curved into a smile, very sweet and 
very bright. 

“ I am not seventeen,” she said. “ You 
must expect a woman of my age to be a 
little reasonable — to consider a little be- 
fore pledging herself to anything very 
important. But I may say to you, as the 
heroines of old-time novels said to their 
lovers, ‘ 1 am not indifferent to your mer- 
its.’ ” 

“I am grateful for any crumb of en- 
couragement,” he replied, “ but my mer- 
its are so inappreciably small, that I can- 
not afford to base any hope on them.” 

“Modesty is a great merit,” said she, 
half laughing, “ and so rare, too ! I did 
not know before that you cultivated it. 
Shall I say, then, frankly, that I like you 
very much, but — ” 

“ Why should you bring in that detest- 
able word ? ” asked he — and now, indeed, 
he began to hope. “Surely you do not 
mean to qualify anything so moderate as 
liking.” 

“ No, I do not mean to qualify the lik- 
ing ; I only mean that I cannot give you 
anything more — at present. I am doubt- 
ful of many things — my own heart among 
the rest. As I have already said, a wom- 
an of my age, if she has any sense at all, 
does not act hastily in such an important 
matter as this. When I give my hand, I 


wish to be sure that my whole heart goes 
with it, and not only my heart, but my 
mind — in other words, I want to be sure 
that I can thoroughly respect as well as 
love the man I marry.” 

“ And you are not sure of that with 
regard to me,” said Marchmont, with a 
flush mounting to his brow. 

“You must not misunderstand me,” 
she answered, quickly. “I only mean 
that I know very little of you. How much 
of the real character do we show each 
other in the drawing-rooms ? Marriage is 
called a lottery ; but, for my part, I have 
always had a fancy to know what I was 
doing before taking a step which means 
so much. Is that desire unreasonable ? ” 

“ Very far from it,” replied March- 
mont ; though he might have added, “It 
is very inconvenient ! ” “I am content if 
you give me a little hope — if you do not 
send me away.” 

“I should be sorry for you to go,” 
she said, with a charming blush. “If 
you are willing to wait for a more defi- 
nite answer — if you can be satisfied with 
a fair field and some favor — ” 

“I can be satisfied with anything 
which gives me a hope of at last winning 
this! ” he said, again kissing the slender, 
delicate hand sparkling with jewels. 

She drew it away now with a faint 
sigh. Perhaps the thought occurred to 
her that without the jewels it might not 
be esteemed so well worth the winning 
— at least it is certain that she had not 
the obtuseness with which (fortunately 
for themselves) many heiresses are liber- 
ally endowed. She did not exactly dis- 
trust every man who approached her, but 
she knew enough of the world to be 
aware of the mercenary side of human 
nature, and to feel sure that she was not 
indebted to her heaux-yeux alone for all 
the suitors who had thronged around her. 

Philosophy and worldly knowledge, 
however, combined to prevent her betray- 
ing such thoughts as these. Though she 
drew back her hand, it was with a very 
winning smile that she said: 


28 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“ I will not make yonr probation long 
or hard. Believe me, I have no love for 
coquetry, and I promise not to keep you 
in doubt an hour longer than I can help. 
But I must be certain of myself! I have 
known a great many men, and heard a 
great many declarations of — attachment, 
shall I say? But, oddly enough, they 
have none of them touched my heart suf- 
ficiently to make me willing to give up 
my freedom and trust my life to the pow- 
er of a man who might make or mar all 
its happiness. You see” — the Spanish- 
like eyes gazed away from him to the 
sunny emerald sward of the lawn beyond 
— “ I am not one of those gentle, trusting 
women to whom love is a necessity. On 
the contrary” — a slight laugh — “I think 
I am one of the women who could easily 
drift into a strong-minded old maid.” 

“ Heaven forbid! ” cried Marchmont, 
with unaffected horror. “ The bare idea 
of such a thing is sacrilege! Do not 
think that I shall grow impatient over my 
probation,” he went on. “I will wait — 
gladly, willingly — any length of time, if 
only you can finally trust your life to me, 
believing that I shall make, not mar, its 
happiness.” 

“I should be glad to believe it,” 
she said, almost as if speaking to her- 
self. 

“ Then why can you not believe it? ” 
cried Marchmont, impetuously. “ What 
proof can I give you ? I should hesitate at 
none ! If I could only lay bare my heart 
to your inspection — if you could only 
see — ” 

“ Nay, that is impossible, you know,” 
she interrupted, with another soft yet 
brilliant smile. “ Besides, if one could al- 
ways see, there would be no such thing 
as faith; and that is my favorite virtue. 
It is not because I distrust you that I hes- 
itate : it is because I am not sure of my- 
self. But I suppose there is an answer to 
all riddles after a while; and you will 
wait patiently — will you not ? — for the an- 
swer to this. Now ” — after Marchmont 
had again assented — “ we will return to 


the house, for I see Mr. Archer is taking 
his departure, and I want to ask him to 
attend to some business for me.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

UNDER AN APPLE-TREE. 

On the graveled sweep in front of the 
house Miss Waldron and her companion 
met Mr. Archer, who had parted with 
the general a moment before. Seeing the 
latter still standing on the steps of the 
portico, Marchmont said : 

“If you are going to walk to Edger- 
ton, Mr. Archer, and have no objection, 
I will accompany you as soon as I bid 
General Waldron good-day.” 

Archer responded to the effect that 
he had no objection, and, leaving Miss 
Waldron talking to him, Marchmont 
passed on to the general. That genial 
gentleman, being fond of conversation, 
detained him several minutes, and it was 
with some difficulty that he at last took 
leave and rejoined the others. As he 
approached, he heard Miss Waldron say- 
ing : 

“ It is a rather troublesome commis- 
sion, but you are so kind about attending 
to such things that I have grown accus- 
tomed to imposing upon your good-na- 
ture.” 

“ I assure you that I have never felt 
the imposition,” Archer replied. “ It 
gives me sincere pleasure to serve you in 
any way.” 

“ Will you have a fern for a reward ? ” 
she asked, extending one with a smile. 
“I know you are as much of a fern-lover 
as myself. I have been showing my 
fernery to Mr. Marchmont, and trying to 
waken his interest for my favorites, but 
I failed signally.” 

“ I think you know the reason of the 
failure,” said Marchmont, while Archer 
received the fern and looked at it with 
the air of a connoisseur. 


UNDER AN APPLE-TREE. 


29 


“ This is one of your prettiest varie- 
ties, Miss Waldron,” he said. “How 
very delicate and graceful these fronds 
are! You mean it for me? Thank you.” 

lie took out his pocket-book, opened 
it, and placed the fern within, saying : 

“ A leaf like this withers sooner than 
a flower in the heat of the sun.” 

“ And am I to be punished for flnding 
you more interesting than the ferns, by 
not having any bestowed upon me?” 
asked Marchmont. “ Surely you will not 
be so unkind I I, too, think fern-leaves 
beautiful — and I should like one as a sou- 
venir,” he added, with a glance that ex- 
pressed a great deal. 

Despite her self-possession, Beatrix’s 
color deepened as she held out the collec- 
tion. 

“Take one, if you like,” she said; 
“ but I am sure you will not value it.” 

“ I should prefer for you to give it to 
me,” he answered. “ And as for my not 
valuing it, I think you know better than 
that. I would value anything you gave 
me — especially anything associated with 
to-day.” 

His voice sank over the last words, so 
that Archer did not hear them, but he 
had a shrewd idea of their tenor. Having 
by this time put away his pocket-book, 
he said, somewhat stiffly : 

“I am at your service, Mr. March- 
mont, when you are ready to start.” 

“ I will not detain you,” said March- 
mont. — “ Many thanks ! ’’ as Miss Waldron 
gave him the fern. “I shall have the 
pleasure of seeing you soon again.” 

The gentlemen lifted their hats; the 
lady bowed ; then they moved away over 
the sunshiny lawn toward a small wick- 
et which let them into the fields, across 
which a path ran. 

“What a charming place!” March- 
mont said, as they found themselves out- 
side the grounds. “One seems while 
there to breathe an air of repose and lux- 
ury. After all, there is no such benefi- 
cent genius as money, when it is united 
with good taste.” 


“It is a very powerful genius,” said 
Archer, “ but its beneficence depends alto- 
gether upon the use which is made of it.” 

“At least it would be difficult to find 
fault with the manner in which it is 
used in this instance,” said Marchmont. 
“ What a capital fellow the general is, 
despite his being a trifle prosy ! And 
good taste is one of the least of Miss Wal- 
dron’s charms.” 

There was something in the tone of 
this remark which jarred on Archer ; but 
he was well aware that he had no right 
i to express any feeling of the kind. 

! “ It would be difficult to tell what 

[ charm Miss Waldron does not possess,” 
1 he said. “I have known her with a par- 
tial degree of intimacy for several years, 

I and I have never met a nobler character 
than hers.” 

I “You are enthusiastic,” said March- 
mont, looking at him with the least pos- 
sible elevation of the eyebrows. 

I “No; I am simply literal,” was the 
quiet reply. “ I am not talking at ran- 
I dom. I have something more than a 
i drawing-room acquaintance with Miss 
i Waldron’s character. At the present 
^ moment I hold a commission from her — 
j there’s nothing confidential in the matter, 

I so I may speak of it — which shows how 
I ready she is to think of benefiting others. 

I There is an untaught boy in Edgerton 
1 who has a remarkable talent for painting, 
and a photographer employs him to col- 
or photographs, some of which fell into 
Miss Waldron’s hands. She was much 
I struck by the work, and she has asked 
! me to find out all that there is to know 
^ about him, and, if he is really deserving 
: of assistance, to send him to her. If he 
i u deserving, I have no more doubt than 
I have that I am walking here that she 
will induce her father to give him the 
opportunities he needs.” 

“Her father must be uncommonly 
obliging if he suffers her to waste money 
on such objects. Embryo geniuses are 
among the most disappointing things in 
the world.” 


30 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“The general has no one to consider 
but herself, therefore he does not curb 
her expenditure at all. I have heard a 
great many people talk of her ‘ wasting 
money’ before this, but I fancy they 
would not have considered it so griev- 
ously wasted if, instead of helping the 
struggling, it had been spent on laces and 
jewels.” 

Marchmont’s lip curled as he lifted the 
slight walking-cane which he carried, and 
beheaded two or three weeds with a sin- 
gle stroke. He could not exactly say, 
“ The general should consider his future 
son-in-law,” but he thought it. A pause 
of two or three minutes followed before 
he said, carelessly: 

“What is the name of the struggling 
Raphael in question ? ” 

“Dinsmore,” Archer answered. 

“ Dinsmore ! ” Marchmont repeated, 
with an involuntary start. To himself he 
added, “ By Jove, it is odd! ” 

“ Do you know anything about him ? ” 
asked Archer, in some surprise. 

“ Nothing further than that there is a 
boy of that name in Mr. Lathrop’s busi- 
ness-house.” 

“ Probably the same. I think I have 
heard that he is there.” 

Had Marchmont forgotten his appoint- 
ment with Amy Reynolds — which was 
not the case — this unexpected introduc- 
tion of Dinsmore’s name would have re- 
minded him of it. Consequently, when 
they entered Edgerton, he glanced at his 
watch, and said : 

“I believe I am just in time for an 
engagement which I made this morning. 
Do our roads part here ? I am happy to 
have made your acquaintance, Mr. Ar- 
cher. Good-afternoon.” 

As Archer returned the salutation and 
walked away, Marchmont glanced after his 
alert figure with a half-amused expression. 

“ So that is your secret, is it, my good 
fellow? ” he said to himself. “ You are 
certainly pretty hard hit ; but it is an in- 
fernal piece of presumption for you to 
think of Beatrix Waldron! ” 


“ A thorough puppy ! ” was Archer’s 
equally complimentary soliloquy at the 
same moment, “ and, unless I am great- 
ly mistaken, mercenary to boot! Plow 
strange that such a woman should be at- 
tracted by such a man! — and she is at- 
tracted, if I am any judge of the signs of 
feminine fancy. Well,” with a short, 
quick sigh, “ what is it to me? 

‘ It were all one 

That I should love some bright particular star. 
And think to wed it.’ 

I don't think it — I am not such a fool as 
that ; but 1 should like a chance to prove 
what I would do for her sake, and w^hat 
a pitiful soul lurks, I am sure, under that 
fellow’s silken exterior! ” 

The pleasantest — in fact, the only 
pleasant — feature of the Reynolds domi- 
cile was a tolerably-sized garden, which, 
although it in part adjoined the Crenshaw 
garden, did not, like that, border the 
street. Hence it was much more retired, 
and, with the dwelling for its boundary in 
front and a high fence and tall hedges on 
the other sides, was an agreeable place of 
resort from January to December. Yet 
it was not much of a garden, either in an 
ornamental or useful sense. The vege- 
tables which came out of it were few and 
poor, while the fiowers that grew in it 
had long since assumed the entire control 
of their own destinies. Nevertheless, 
there were blooin and fragrance even here 
under the sweet kiss of April. Syringa 
and yellow jasmine, lilac and honeysuc- 
kle, these alone would redeem Sahara. 
A very rickety arbor was covered with 
the jasmine and honeysuckle, among 
which countless bees were humming loud- 
ly, and under which, as four o'clock drew 
near, sat Amy, arrayed in the best dress 
her limited wardrobe afforded, with lilies- 
of-the-valley in her hair, a score of music 
on her lap, and a look of expectancy in 
her eyes. 

A clock near by struck the hour, and 
several minutes afterward elapsed, but 


UNDER AN APPLE-TREE. 


31 


still the golden quiet of the afternoon re- 
mained undisturbed. The children, on 
various pretexts, had been sent away, 
and the only sounds which broke the still- 
ness were the chords of the piano as they 
rolled out under Felix’s fingers. Through 
the open windows every note was audible ; 
but Amy was so accustomed to this that 
it did not in any manner interfere with 
her thoughts or her power of listening. 
Consequently, when a peal of the door- 
bell came, she heard it at once, although 
the musician was just then in the midst 
of a crashing fortissimo passage. 

Instantly she dropped her score and 
darted away. Clara, the half-deaf ser- 
vant-of-all-work, sometimes answered the 
door-bell, if she chanced to hear it and 
was not too busy ; but this, of all things, 
Amy least desired at present, for Clara 
had severe ideas of propriety, and fre- 
quently admonished the willful, mother- 
less girl in a well-meant but not agreeable 
manner. If she went to the door, Mr. 
Marchmont would not be admitted — of 
that Amy felt sure ; so she hurried away 
— tearing her dress in her haste on an 
overgrown rosebush — flitted across the 
latticed back piazza, walked demurely but 
quickly down the narrow passage, and 
opened the door with trembling fingers, 
to face — a short, heavily bearded, bright- 
ly spectacled man, who held out his hand 
and said : 

“ Goot-day, my dear ! Ees your baba 
at home? ” 

“ Oh ! ” said Amy, with a great gulp 
of disappointment. She felt a strong in- 
clination to slam the door, liked a spoiled 
child, but she resisted it, and only an- 
swered shortly : “ No, Herr Meerbach, he 
isn’t at home ; he never is at home this 
time of day.” 

“ Ah, I haf made von mistake, den,” 
said Herr Meerbach, smiling as he looked 
at her — a smile Amy felt nowise inclined 
to return. “ I fought he vas done mit his 
lessons by now. Veil, my bretty little 
maiden, you shust say to heem dat I veel 
be glad eef he veel come to my room to- 


night. I haf von letter from mine friend 
in Leipsic.” 

“ Oh, Herr Meerbach ! ” cried Amy, 
“ is there any hope that papa will be able 
to send Felix ? ” 

“ Sh ! sh ! ” said Herr Merrbach, while 
his bright eyes seemed to grow brighter 
behind the spectacles. “ Ees not Felix at 
de piano? Do not let him know. Dis- 
appointment is hard, and your baba must 
say. Goot-day, my dear, and be sure you 
tell heem.” 

After the kindly little man had walked 
away, Amy gave one quick glance up and 
down the street, then drew in her curly 
head with a sigh and shut the door. 

“ It would never do to be found watch- 
ing for him ! ” she said to herself. 

It, was in a somewhat dejected frame 
of mind that she returned to the garden. 
Picking up her score from the walk where 
it lay, she retreated to the farthest corner 
of the domain, and established herself on 
the low, broad bough of a spreading ap- 
ple-tree — a bough easily reached without 
much gymnastic skill. 

It was her favorite seat, and she did 
not care now how much she tumbled her 
dress. 

“ I was a fool to think he would re- 
member or care to come ! ” she said. 
“ Never mind ; things will be different 
when I am a prima donna! ” 

Then, as a means to this desirable end, 
she bent her eyes and her attention on 
the music, and began to sing. 

Considering the sounds she was emit- 
ting, it was not singular that, several 
minutes later, she did not hear approach- 
ing steps until her practising was inter- 
rupted by the appearance of Marchmont, 
who stepped round a cluster of bushes, 
and said, with a smile : 

“ I see that Fortune has marked me 
for its own. To find you alone, to find 
you here, and to find you singing, what 
a delightful combination of circumstan- 
ces!” 

“ How did you get here ? ” asked 
Amy, too startled to think of any other 


32 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


greeting, and thrilling with a mixture of 
pleasure and mortification — pleasure that 
he had come, mortification that she should 
be found established, like a tomboy, in 
the fork of an apple-tree. 

“I met my charming little friend 
Mariette on the street. She piloted me 
into the house, and your voice did the 
rest. Are you vexed with me for com- 
ing? If you could see yourself among 
those apple-blossoms, you would think 
the picture too lovely to be wasted ; and 
I am at least endowed with the power to 
admire.” 

There was little doubt of that. His 
eyes, as he spoke, expressed this admira- 
tion so plainly, that into x\my’s face the 
blood mounted in a roseate tide. She 
recovered her composure, however — 
helped thereto by a sense of satisfaction 
which was all the greater for following 
on partial disappointment. 

“I hope my ankles are not showing 
'cery badly!” she thought. “If I had 
expected you in the least, you would not 
find me perched here in this ridiculous 
manner,” she added, aloud. 

“ I don’t consider it ridiculous at all,” 
said Marchmont. “ I have often sat in 
an apple-tree, and I know that it gener- 
ally makes a capital seat. May I try it 
now ? That bough looks very tempting.” 

“I cannot advise you to try it,” said 
Amy, with a rippling laugh. “I don’t 
think it would bear your weight. It 
cracked the other day when Hugh and I 
were sitting here.” 

“ Oh, Hugh sits there, does he ? Lucky 
fellow ! By-the-by, I think I saw Hugh 
this morning — isn’t his name Dinsmore ? — 
and he did not regard me in a very friend- 
ly manner.” 

“ Hugh is — peculiar ! ” said Amy. “ I 
bear with him because he is such a good 
fellow, but I often tell him that he will 
never get on in the world.” 

“ That must be encouraging,” said 
Marchmont, smiling. He was not in the 
least interested in Hugh, but he served, 
for a topic of conversation, and it was 


pleasant to lean against a convenient tree 
and watch at his leisure the slanting sun- 
light fall on the girl opposite — on her rich 
chestnut hair, her exquisite complexion, 
her piquant features and laughing eyes. 
“By Jove!” he said to himself, “if she 
ever does go on the stage, it will be a 
Veni^ mdi^ vici business in more senses 
than one! ” 

“Oh, Hugh does not mind what I 
say,” remarked Amy, answering his last 
remark. “We are great friends, though 
he is very trying — and some day when I 
am famous he is to paint my portrait.” 

“You have quite made up your mind 
with regard to the fame, then? ” 

“I have quite made up my mind; 
but ” — a sigh — “ unluckily there are other 
minds to be made up.” 

“ Would a victory be worth anything 
without a struggle ? But I see no neces- 
sity to wait till you are famous with re- 
gard to the portrait. Why does not 
Hugh paint it now ? I should like a pict- 
ure of you as you sit there. But I 
should not like him to he here to take 
it — at least not now.” 

“It is very inhospitable of me to sit 
here and let you stand,” said Amy, de- 
bating in her mind how she should get 
down. “We might go into the parlor, 
only Felix is making such a noise there.”^ 

“ Don’t think of such a thing ! It is 
absolutely sinful to spend such hours as 
these under a roof.” 

“Well, there is the arbor, if you won’t 
be frightened by its appearance. It holes 
’as if just about to fall down, but it has 
stood a long while.” 

“ I should be dreadfully frightened, I 
am certain. I don’t want to be buried, 
not even by an arbor. It strikes me that 
we are excellently placed ; pray allow me 
to remain where I am. I never grow 
tired when I am well entertained.” 

“ I don’t see what there is to enter- 
tain you,” said Amy, who began to find 
this very agreeable. 

“Don’t you? That is strange ! How- 
ever, I must not neglect business for 


UNDER AN APPLE-TREE. 


33 


pleasure, though happily, in this instance, 
business is synonymous with pleasure. 
Will you let me hear your song, mademoi- 
selle ? 

Mademoiselle did not demur or hesi- 
tate. She lifted the sheet of music, and 
forthwith began to sing. 

Marchmont listened and looked with 
an expression of amused approval. 

The pretty, half-childish figure perched 
on the gnarled hough of the old apple- 
tree, her unconscious imitation of the 
manner of a concert-singer, and the beau- 
tiful, silvery voice — the oddity of this 
combination might have amused a less 
volatile person. 

When the song ended, she received 
his compliments and criticisms with per- 
fect composure. 

“ Of course I have a great deal yet to 
learn,” she said; “but I know my voice 
will be worth hearing some day. Papa 
says so, and Herr Meerbach — he is teacher 
of music at the college, you know — and 
Mr. Trafford. It is astonishing how much 
Mr. Trafford knows about such things ! ” 

Upon which Marchmont could no lon- 
ger restrain the question which had trem- 
bled on his tongue twice before that day. 

“Who is Mr. TrafiPord?” he asked. 
“Or perhaps I should say what is he? 
I have heard of him as a benevolent gen- 
tleman who keeps string for the benefit 
of small children, and as a capitalist who 
invests in paying stocks ; now I hear of 
him as a musical critic. Pray, is he any- 
thing else? ” 

“ An eavesdropper occasionally — with- 
out malicious intention,” answered a 
voice which made both Marchmont and 
Amy start. The former, however, was 
chiefly surprised when, on turning, he en- 
countered the gaze of a pair of acute eyes, 
and saw a head overlooking the high wall 
which shut off Mrs. Crenshaw’s garden. 
This head was covered with iron-gray 
hair, and surmounted by an embroidered 
smoking-cap ; the face was that of a man 
between fifty and sixty, bronzed, lined, 
expressing much shrewdness, yet frank 


and pleasant withal. A meerschaum pipe 
was in his mouth, which he removed as 
he went on : 

“You must excuse me, my dear” — 
addressing Amy — “but your song drew 
me to the end of the garden, and, as I 
paced along the wall, I heard this gentle- 
man’s question. You can answer it as 
you please, for I am going back to the 
house now. Take care of yourself — 
don’t fall out of that tree ! ” 

He smiled, nodded, and disappeared. 
There was a minute’s silence while they 
listened to his retreating footsteps, then 
Marchmont said : 

“ Is he a lunatic ? His mode of ap- 
pearance reminds one strikingly of the 
crazy man in ‘Nicholas Nickleby.’ ” 

“Oh, no,” replied Amy; “but,” she 
added, lowering her voice to a whisper, 
“ he is very, 'oery queer — what would be 
called eccentric. He boards at Mrs. Cren- 
shaw’s, and he is devoted to music — 
though you wouldn’t think so from his 
looks, would you ? The first time I ever 
saw him was in just that way. I was 
sitting here, singing, and he looked over 
the wall and asked if I was a thrush or a 
nightingale. The next night Felix was 
playing, and he put his head in the parlor- 
window, and said : ‘ That boy will make 
a great musician some day.’ Then papa 
asked him in, and he has been coming 
ever since.” 

“ I don’t wonder at that,” said March- 
mont. “ How is it possible for any one 
to keep away who has once been ad- 
mitted to your enchanted garden ? If I 
come again very soon, will you be sur- 
prised ? ” 

“ I don’t know why you should,” an- 
swered Amy, blushing. 

“But if /know, is not that enough? 
You would not have the heart to deny 
me, if you could imagine how dull I find 
everything else.” 

He came nearer, and leaned his arm 
on the bough upon which she sat. 

“ Speak ! ” he said, smiling. “ May 
I return? Do you believe in Fate? I 


34 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


do; and I believe it has thrown us to- 
gether for a purpose.” 

“I don’t believe in Fate at all,” re- 
plied Amy, who, young as she was, had 
a sufficient spice of coquetry in her to hold 
her own; “but you may come — if you 
like.” 

“ Do you doubt my liking? ” 

“Yes; I doubt it. I can only sing; 
while you must know any number of 
charming ladies who — ” 

She stopped short, for he was laugh- 
ing. 

“ So you think you can only sing? ” he 
said. “Does your mirror tell you no 
more than that ? Do you not know that 
your face is as uncommon as your 
voice? ” 

The unmistakable sincerity of his 
words seemed to impress her. She looked 
down with half-parted lips, a questioning 
surprise in her eyes. 

“ I did not suppose that you would 
think so,” she said, simply. 

Then, as she realized what her words 
implied, the color again rushed over her 
face, and saying quickly, “This is all 
nonsense ! ” she suddenly made a spring 
toward the ground. 

In her haste and confusion she was - 
awkward. Her foot caught, and she | 
would have fallen heavily if Marchmont 
had not been so near. As it was, he had 
barely time to interpose and receive her 
in his arms. 

“ You see you are punished for trying 
to deprive me of the pleasure of assisting 
you down,” he said, laughing, as she drew 
back from him, flushed and more lovely 
than ever. For an instant he was greatly 
tempted to snatch a kiss, but he felt in- 
stinctively that even this wild little Bohe- 
mian was woman enough to resent such a 
liberty, and he had no mind to be ban- 
ished in earnest. “You might have 
sprained your ankle,” he went on, “ and 
a sprained ankle is no joke. Why were 
you in such haste ? Have I made myself 
disagreeable? If so, it was most uninten- 
tionally. This garden is the most delight- 


ful place I have known in an age, and has 
but one disadvantage — the probability 
that Mr. Trafiford’s head may appear over 
the wall at any time.” 

“It does not appear very often,” said 
Amy. “ He is not often at home.” 

“ The most desirable thing would be 
that he should take his departure alto- 
gether. One never knows what course 
the eccentricities of eccentric people may 
follow. A propos^ what a charming glen 
that was in which I first saw you ! Do 
you go there only on Sunday ? ” 

“Not often at any other time, because 
I do not like to walk so far alone, and 
Hugh can go with me only on Sunday, 
while Felix cares for nothing but the 
piano.” 

“Will you let me be your escort some 
time? Mr. Trafford would not be there, 
and I am sure we should enjoy it very 
much.” 

This proposal took Amy by surprise. 
Even if her social position had been dif- 
ferent, her social experience much great- 
er, she would have been flattered by the 
attention of this fine gentleman, whose 
appearance in Edgerton had created a 
flutter of interest in what newspaper 
j writers call “fashionable circles.” Being 
I what she was, it seemed almost incredible 
that he should distinguish her by his ad- 
miration, and she brightened and dimpled 
with pleasure as she answered : 

“I shall be very glad to go — if I 
can.” 

“ If you can ! Who will prevent your 
doing so ? ” 

“ Oh, nobody, I suppose. — There ! ” as 
a prolonged cry of “ Miss Amy ! ” came 
from the region of the house. “ Clara is 
calling me; I must go! Would you — 
would you mind if I let you out into the 
lane, instead of taking you through the 
house again ? It is shorter, and Clara is 
so fussy! ” 

“ I am in your hands ; do exactly what 
you please with me,” replied Marchmont, 
who for obvious reasons preferred a quiet 
exit. 


HUGH RECEIVES A COMMISSION. 


35 


He was therefore piloted to a small 
gate opening from the garden on a nar- 
row lane. 

“We keep this locked most of the 
time,” said Amy, unfastening it, “but 
sometimes we find it conveniently open.” 

“It is very convenient,” said March- 
mont; “and, now that you have showed 
me the secret entrance, you need not be 
surprised if you see me often. Must I 
really go no w ? Is Clara a dragon ? Good- 
evening, then, and do not forget that you 
are pledged to take a woodland ramble.” 

“ Amy,” said Mariette, an hour or two 
later, “ see what a pretty fern I found at 
the foot of our apple-tree.” 

“ Give it to me ! ” said Amy, quickly. 
When the delicate frond was placed in her 
hand, she knew it to he the one which she 
had seen in Marchmont’s button-hole, and 
which no doubt had fallen unnoticed when 
he caught her as she sprang from the tree. 
“It is too pretty to throw away,” she 
said to the child. Then she ran to her 
own room, placed it carefully between the 
leaves of a book, and wrote the date on 
the margin. 

“ I feel as if this is the beginning of 
life for me ! ” she said, looking at it with 
the pencil between her fingers. 


CHAPTER VH. 

HUGH EECEIVES A COMMISSION. 

It is to he supposed that Mr. Archer’s 
inquiries with regard to Hugh Dinsmore 
were satisfactory, for a few days later a 
note was brought to Miss Waldron, which 
contained the following lines: 

“Dear Miss Waldron: This will be 
presented to you by Hugh Dinsmore, the 
colorist of whom you spoke when I last 
saw you. He bears, as far as I can learn, 
an unblemished character, and deserves 
respect and encouragement. I have the 
honor to be your obedient servant, 

“Henry Archer.” 


Miss Waldron, who was sitting in the 
library, laid down her book, and said to 
the servant : 

“ Where is the boy ? ” 

“He said he’d wait in the hall, 
ma’am.” 

“You should have asked him into the 
I drawing-room ; hut no matter now — show 
j him in here.” 

I A minute later Hugh entered. The 
! change from the bright light of the hall 
to the subdued light of the library made 
him hesitate for an instant within the 
door ; then he saw the young lady rise, 
and he advanced with a not ungraceful 
bow. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Dinsmore ? ” 
she said, in her pleasant, frank voice. “ I 
am glad you have come. Pray sit down.” 

She indicated a chair as she spoke — a 
more delightful chair than Hugh had ever 
in his life occupied before — and as he sat 
down he said : 

1 

j “ I have come by Mr. Archer’s request, 
Miss Waldron ; he told me that you wished 
to see me.” 

“ Yes,” replied Miss Waldron, noticing 
with what an educated accent he spoke ; 
“I requested Mr. Archer to send you — 
or, rather,* to ask you to come. I believe 
you are an artist? ” 

“ I, madam ? ” said Hugh. “ Oh, no ! 
I should like to be one, if I could.” 
j She smiled cordially. “That is the 
I right feeling,” she said; “I have no 
doubt you will be one. You are very 
young yet. I saw a photograph which 
you colored the other day, and it was so 
well done that I thought I would ask you 
to touch up some for me.” 

“ I will do it willingly,” he answered. 

“ You are sure you have the time? ” 

“Yes, for I paint at night. To color 
a photograph is nothing; that is not 
artist- work at all.” 

“Yet artists are often colorists.” 

“Perhaps so — for money. But there 
is no satisfaction in it. Do what one 
will, the hard outlines, the sharp shades, 
remain.” 


36 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“The photograph you painted, of 
which I speak, had less of that than any 
other I ever saw ; the colors were so fine- 
ly and softly blended.” 

“ Who was the photograph of?” he 
asked. “I paint a great many.” 

“ This was of Meta Brodnax.” 

“ I remember. The commission came 
directly from Miss Brodnax, so I could 
afford to do my best. I cannot usually 
afford to do so for what Mr. Watkins 
pays me.” 

“ Y'our best was so admirable, that I 
could scarcely believe this w^as a mere 
photograph taken on paper. It looked 
like a miniature painted on ivory.” 

“ No ! ” said Hugh, shaking his head. 
“A photograph can never look like a 
miniature ; the artist’s hand has done 
everything there. And then, ivory is such 
a beautiful thing to paint on — or must 
be, I should think. I have never tried it.” 

“Why not? It is true that minia- 
tures are now generally superseded by 
these odious photographs ; but there are 
some people who still have sense enough 
to desire an enduring picture.” 

The boy hesitated for a moment, then 
he said, si ply, “ That may be ; but I 
have never had the ivory on which to 
paint, nor the necessary instruction. And 
I like oil-colors best.” 

“ Wait a moment,” said Miss Waldron, 
and, rising quickly, she left the room. 

When she returned she carried in her 
hand a casket which would have delight- 
ed a virtuoso. Placing it on the table by 
which Hugh and herself had been sitting, 
she unlocked it with a small key and 
drew forth a miniature richly set in 
pearls and attached to a long gold chain. 

“This,” she said, “is one of our most 
valuable family possessions. It is a min- 
iature which was painted in Paris more 
than a century ago— a picture of the an- 
cestress after "whom I am named. Lady 
Beatrix Waldron. She was named after 
that unhappy princess who was the sec- 
ond wife of James II., and botli by birth 
and marriage was identified with devoted 


Jacobites. Her husband and herself w^ere 
untiring in the cause of the Pretender, 
and the former played an important part 
in the ill-fated campaign of 1745. It was 
owing to his wife’s courage and wit that 
he finally escaped to France with his head 
on his shoulders, and there this picture 
was taken. Soon after, like many others 
who followed the white cockade of Prince 
Charlie, they came to America, where 
their descendants live at the present day. 
See, how lovely she is! And would you 
not think that the picture had been paint- 
ed yesterday, from the freshness and 
clearness of its tints ? ” 

Plugh answered not a word. He had 
received the miniature in his hand, and 
he now stood, with his eyes fastened on 
it, almost as if he had been magnetized. 

“ How beautiful ! how beautiful I ” he 
said at last. “ I never saw anything so 
beautiful before ! ” 

It certainly was exquisitely painted, 
and the subject was one which had given 
the artist’s powers full scope. The love- 
ly, high-bred face with its brilliant com- 
plexion, the fearless eyes, and rich brown 
hair elaborately coifed and dressed with 
pearls, the fair, uncovered neck, and court- 
dress — each was painted with a delicacy 
and skill that were like a revelation to 
I Hugh. 

Miss Waldron smiled kindly at his de- 
light. 

“ I am glad I showed it to you,” she 
said. “We are very proud of our ances- 
tress, for her courage wms as great as her 
beauty.” 

“ She looks like a princess and a hero- 
ine in one ! ” said the boy. “ I am sure 
she would have died for Prince Charlie ! ” 

“Very likely. I have heard that to 
the day of her death she was an ardent 
Jacobite. But a thought has struck me ! 
I think I can give you a better commis- 
sion than the mere coloring of a few pho- 
tographs. How should you like to copy 
this ? ” 

“Miss Waldron, you cannot be in 
earnest ? ” 


HUGH RECEIVES A COMMISSION. 


37 


“I am in serious earnest. Do you 
think you could do it? ” 

There was a minute’s pause before 
he answered — a pause during which he 
looked intently at the picture. Then he 
said, very slowly: 

“I think I could.” 

“If you think so, you shall,” said Miss 
Waldron. “ I have a cousin who has long 
coveted this miniature, but of course it is 
impossible that I could give it to her. I 
have several times thought, however, that 
I should like to give her a copy. Now, 
if you can make a faithful copy, I will 
pay you a hundred dollars.” 

“ Miss Waldron ! ” said Hugh, with a 
gasp. Such a wonderful prospect as that 
of making at one stroke a hundred dol- 
lars fairly took away his breath. “ Oh, I 
would try my iceTy best to do it ! ” he cried, 
eagerly, after a moment; “but — but you 
cannot mean to trust this picture to me ? ” 

“Why should I not? See there! ” — 
she pushed Mr. Archer’s note toward him 
— “that is the character you bring me.” 

Hugh took the note and read the few 
lines, with a flush mounting to his face. 
Then he looked up, and, as he was stand- 
ing just opposite the window. Miss Wal- 
dron was struck by the limpid candor of 
his eyes. 

“Mr. Archer is very good,” he said, 
simply, “ and, as far as I am concerned, 
your picture would be safe. But there is 
the danger of accident. I hardly think I 
dare take it.” 

“ There would be no danger of acci- 
dent if you did not tell any one that you 
had it,” said the young lady, whose sense 
of prudence was often overmastered by 
generous impulses. “ Does any one share 
your room?” 

“Not any one at all. I could have a j 
better one if I would share it, but I can- | 
not ; I must have privacy at any cost.” | 

“ And you stay — ” j 

“ At Mrs. Sargent’s. It is a very plain ! 
house, but the people are honest and 
kind.” 

“ Then I see no possible reason why | 


you should not take the picture. In fact, 
I insist upon it. Frankly, when I sent 
for you it was with the intention of offer- 
ing you the means necessary to become 
an artist; but since I have seen you, I 
am sure you would rather earn money 
than accept it.” 

“ I would very much rather earn it,” 
he answered, “though I thank you for 
intending to offer it,” he added, with a 
courtesy that surprised his listener. “I 
am glad you told me ; I have always be- 
lieved that people who never knew what 
struggle was cared little for the sufferings 
of those who have never known anything 
else ; but I shall not think so again.” 

“Some of us are very careless,” said 
Miss Waldron, “but we often err more 
from want of thought than want of heart. 
By-the-way, I believe you said you have 
no ivory. I will give you some sheets 
that I have. Some years ago,” she went 
on, unheeding Hugh’s remonstrance, as 
she crossed the floor and opened the door 
of a cabinet, “I took a fancy to paint 
miniatures. Of course I failed. But I 
have all the necessary appliances here, and 
I will hand them over to you.” 

Poor Hugh was so overcome by this 
kindness that he was fairly incoherent 
when he attempted to return his thanks ; 
and when, after a little longer talk — in 
the course of which Miss Waldron drew 
forth all his hopes and aspirations — he 
went away, it was with a half-incredu- 
lous sense of something too good to be 
true. 

As he was leaving the hall a carriage 
drew up before the door, and, crossing 
the portico, he found himself face to 
face with Miss Lathrop and Brian March- 
mont. 

The young lady swept by with an in- 
different glance ; Marchmont nodded care- 
lessly, but Hugh did not return the salu- 
tation. He lifted his hat to Miss Lathrop, 
whom he knew as the daughter of his 
employer ; but he passed Marchmont, 
who was a little behind, without the 
least notice. That gentleman smiled. 


38 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“ Is it worth while to give the unman- 
nerly young beggar a lesson? ” he thought. 
“But, perhaps, the best lesson is the jeal- 
ousy he is suffering with regard to pretty 
Amy. So Archer, like a fool, sent him 
here ! But then, he would do anything 
to ingratiate himself with Miss Waldron. 
— Florence,” he said, as the servant left his 
cousin and himself in the drawing-room, 
“ do you know anything about that fel- 
low Archer, whom I met here several 
days ago ? ” 

“Very little,” answered Miss Flor- 
ence. “He does not go into society at 
all. When he first came to Edgerton, 
mamma — who knew his mother, or some- 
thing of the kind — tried to show him a 
little attention ; but he repulsed it like a 
bear, and since then he has been left 
alone. By all accounts, he must be to- 
tally unfitted for society. But why do you 
ask? ” 

“ Simply because it is very evident 
that he lifts his eyes and his hopes to our 
charming lady of the manor.” 

Miss Florence opened Tier eyes. 

“Is it possible?” she said. “I am 
certainly surprised — though I don’t know 
why I should be,” she added, philosoph- 
ically. “ All men want to marry an heir- 
ess, and no man believes there is any dan- 
ger of his failing to please a woman.” 

“ Until he has failed a few times,” said 
March mont. “ Then he learns wisdom, 
if not modesty. But I consider Archer’s 
case one of fiagrant presumption, and it is 
a pity Miss Waldron is not aware of it, 
that she might administer an effectual 
quietus.” 

“ Do you suppose she is not aware of 
it? ” asked his cousin. “ Women usually 
know such things long before they let you 
know that they are aware of them.” 

“ I know that the dull masculine mind 
hardly appreciates the quickness of the 
feminine intelligence,” Marchmont began, 
with a laugh ; but Miss Waldron’s appear- 
ance just then cut short his speech. 

She looked very handsome as she en- 
tered, dressed in black grenadine and 


black lace, with a crapy, rose-colored tie 
at her throat, a rich fiush on her cheeks, a 
bright light in her eyes. 

It was not the first time that she had 
seen Marchmont since his declaration in 
the fernery, so her manner was altogether 
composed as she shook hands with him, 
after greeting Miss Lathrop. 

“1 am so glad that you have both 
come,” she said, presently. “ I want to 
ask you about my birthday entertain- 
ment. Papa insists, as usual, on a ball — 
though I tell him that I am growing too 
old for such frivolities — but he does not 
object to anything else that I please being 
added. We had theatricals last year, you 
know, Florence, so I have thought of a 
concert — a kind of musical What do 

you think of it ? ” 

“ I think that you will find it very dif- 
ficult to accomplish,” replied Miss Flor- 
ence. “Singers will be even harder to 
find than actors — and harder to manage, 
too.” 

“ That they could not possibly be,’^ 
said Miss Waldron, laughing. “ The man- 
aging, however, will fall on the director’s 
shoulders — and he is equal to it.” 

“Mr. Reynolds, you mean?” 

“Yes, Mr. Reynolds. He is perma- 
nently director of the Cecilia Society, and 
he tells me that any or all the members of 
it will assist. Since the society comprises 
the best musical talent in Edgerton, that 
settles the question of performers.” 

“Pray,” said Marchmont, “does Mr. 
Reynolds’s daughter belong to the Cecilia 
Society ? She has one of the finest voices 
I ever heard — the purest, most silvery so- 
prano.” 

“Little Amy?” said Miss Waldron, 
in a tone of surprise. “ I had no idea of 
it.” 

“ I have heard something of her 
voice,” said Miss Florence ; “but she cer- 
tainly does not belong to the Cecilia. 
They are all of our class.” 

“ I suppose she would hardly contam- 
inate them,” said Marchmont. “And real- 
ly” — turning to Miss Waldron — “if you 


so LONG AS YOU ARE AMUSED.” 


39 


want to signalize yonr fete by bringing 
out a star of the first magnitude, get little 
Amy, as you call her, to sing for you.” 

“ Is her voice really so good? ” 

“ It is really most remarkable.” 

“ And how did you find out about it, 
Brian ? ” asked Miss Florence, curiously. 

“ I heard her accidentally first,” said 
Marchmont, carelessly. “Since then I 
have been to Mr. Reynolds’s house once 
or twice for the pleasure of listening to 
her.” 

“And looking at her, perhaps,” said 
Miss Waldron, smiling. “She is very 
pretty. — Thank you for the information, 
Mr. Marchmont ; I will act on it at once. | 
Perhaps it may benefit her to bring her 
voice into notice,” she added. 

“ So you want W[iot\iev protegee ? ” said j 
Marchmont. “ Are you not satisfied with 
the one whom I met going out ? ” j 

“ Dear me ! ” said Miss Florence. 
— “ Was that shabby boy a protege of 
yours, Beatrix ? I thought, of course, he 
had merely come on an errand.” 

“ I am inclined to think that shabby 
boy will make a remarkable man some 
day,” said Miss Waldron. “He certainly 
has great talent for painting. I saw some 
of his work not long ago, and I asked 
Mr. Archer to inquire about his character, 
and, if it was good, to send him here.” 

“Mr. Archer — ah!” said Miss Flor- 
ence, glancing at her cousin. 

“ I have given him a kind of test-com- 
mission,” Miss Waldron went on. “It 
will show his power, enable me to help 
him, and serve to educate him in art — all | 
at the same time. He is to copy the 
miniature of my ancestress. Lady Bea- 
trix, which you have often admired, Flor- 
ence.” 

“What! that picture? O Beatrix!” 

“ Well ” — with a laugh — “ why should 
not that picture be copied as well as an- 
other?” 

“But how absurd — pray excuse me! 
— to imagine that he could copy it, or to 
trust anything so valuable in his hands ! 
— Brian, have you ever seen it? No? 


That is a pity, for it is the loveliest thing 
imaginable, and is set in pearls worth a 
fortune.” 

“ My dear Florence, pray be mod- 
erate ! The pearls are beautiful, but they 
do not by any means represent a for- 
tune.” 

“ And is it possible,” said Marchmont, 
with a look of amazement, “ that you have 
trusted such a thing to the boy whomH 
met? ” 

“ I trusted it to him — yes. I am sure 
he is honest.” 

“ But — pardon me ! — how can you pos- 
sibly be sure ? There is every presump- 
tion against his honesty, and the tempta- 
tion is immense. Let me urge you to 
reclaim the picture at once ! ” 

“Yes — pray do! ” pleaded Miss Flor- 
ence. “ Think how dreadful it would be 
if he ran away with it ! Really, Beatrix, 
I am astonished at you! ” 

“Honestly,” said Miss Waldron, “if 
I had taken time for thought, I might 
not have given him the picture; but I 
cannot reclaim it now. I feel sure of his 
honesty, and I could not seem to suspect 
him.” 

“It would be better to do that than 
to lose the picture,” urged her friend. 

“I have no fear of losing it. — Mr. 

I Marchmont, can you suggest anything 
I very effective for the programme of my 
! fete ? Mr. Reynolds suggests a cantata^ 

I but I fear that would be too long, and 
weary, more than entertain, an audience 
longing for dancing.” 

“ I think a concert selection would be 
better,” said Marchmont; “but your own 
ideas, I am sure, are good. Let us have 
them ! ” 

CHAPTER VIII. 

“so LONG AS TOU ARE AMUSED.” 

“You don’t seem glad of my good 
fortune, Amy,” said Hugh, in rather a 
wounded tone. 


40 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


They were in the garden together, 
these two young people, as the day died 
softly away into dusk, and in the western 
sky the sunset built a gorgeous temple of 
fretted gold and jasper, with vivid crim- 
son melting into softest rose on the long 
lines of vapor. 

Over their heads hung a canopy of ten- 
der green foliage, while neither thought 
of dew in connection with the fragrant 
grass on which they sat. 

In response to Hugh’s last speech 
Amy looked up, and the dreamy expres- 
sion, which had of late become habitual 
in her eyes, faded out of them, as she 
said : 

“ Yes, I am glad, Hugh, but — I wish 
it had come in another w'ay. If I were 
you, I would not like the idea of being 
patronized; and that is what Miss Wal- 
dron is doing.” 

“I don’t think so,” Hugh replied; 
but the color mounted to his sensitive 
face. “ Patronage means something of- 
fensive, but Miss Waldron only intends 
to be kind. Of course, she desires to as- 
sist me, and makes an opportunity to do 
so; but why should I object to that? I 
would not accept charity, but it would 
surely be misplaced pride to refuse assist- 
ance.” 

Amy made a slight, petulant motion 
with her shoulders. 

“That may be the way you look at 
it,” she said, “but / never mean to be in- 
debted to anybody for anything. Above 
all, I would not be indebted to one of 
those arrogant Edgerton people ! ” 

“ I doubt if people here are more ar- 
rogant than people anywhere else,” said 
Hugh, quietly; “and Miss Waldron is 
not arrogant at all. She is as kind and 
simple — ” 

“ I don’t want to hear anything about 
her,” interrupted Amy. “You may fall 
in love with her if you like, but please 
don’t bore me with her praises.” 

“Fall in love with her!” repeated 
Hugh, with a laugh. “That is a good 
joke! Honor bright, Amy, don’t you 


know that I never have been, and never 
shall be, in love with but one person? ” 

“Nonsense, Hugh! you are a boy, 
and don’t know your own mind,” replied 
Amy, with discouraging carelessness. 

“You are mistaken about that,” said 
Hugh, who was well used to snubbing. 
“I know my mind a great deal better 
than many men, and before long I shall 

a man. Then, perhaps, you’ll listen to 
me.” 

“My dear boy,” said Amy, with the 
calmness of superior wisdom, “ before 
you have finished learning how to paint, 
I shall be a queen of the lyric stage. Mr. 
March — ” 

Here she stopped short, and either a 
glow from the sunset sky suddenly fell 
over her face, or else a blush dyed it. 

“ Well,” said Hugh, in a tone of very 
poorly-concealed irritation, “ what has 
your oracle, Mr. Marchmont, told you 
now ? ” 

“Nothing that would interest you,” 
she answered, wTth an attempt at dignity. 
“You are so prejudiced against him that 
it is not worth while to repeat anything 
he has said.” 

“I am not prejudiced against him,” 
said Hugh. “Why should I be? But I 
know that his coming here does you no 
good; and I doubt if your father knows 
how often he does come.” 

“Hugh, how dare you! ” cried Amy, 
with wrathful lightning gathering in her 
eyes. 

“I would dare a great deal, Amy, to 
save you from any harm,” answered Hugh, 
gravely. “Y^ou don’t know — you are so 
young, and have no mother — how people 
will talk if Mr. Marchmont continues to 
come here so much. Oh, you may be as 
angry with me as you like — I do not 
care how angry you are, if it makes you 
consider.” 

“ What should I consider? ” demanded 
Amy, so angry that her cheeks were 
ablaze with crimson. “ What is Edger- 
ton to me? I don’t care a straw if 
people talk till their tongues drop out! ” 


so LONG AS YOU ARE AMUSEDJ 


41 


“ I think you would care if you knew,” 
said Hugh. “And your father — I am 
sure he would care. He works so hard, 
and is so busy, that he has not time 
to look after you ; but you are old 
enough to take care of yourself. Amy, 
dear, promise me not to let that man 
come here any more ! ” 

In his eagerness he leaned forward 
and caught one of the girl’s hands, hold- 
ing it firmly in both his own. His eyes 
gazed at her with an almost passionate 
pleading ; but it was a pleading which, 
instead of touching her heart, only made 
her wrath wax higher. She snatched 
her hand away, and looked at him with a 
glance which the poor fellow remembered 
long afterward. 

“ I have borne a great deal from you,” 
she said, “ but I will not bear this! You 
have no right to talk so to me ! If you 
want to make mischief, you had better 
go and tell papa that people are talking 
— oh, how I hate them ! ” she cried, with 
the small hands clinched, the bright eyes 
flashing fire; “but it is useless to come 
to me. You are jealous of Mr. March- 
mont — I dare you to deny it ! — and that 
is what your warning means.” 

“ Y"ou are mistaken,” said Hugh. “I 
am not jealous of him in the way you 
mean, but I am sure he will bring trouble 
on you, one way or another, if you don’t 
take care. Ho you know what has 
brought him to Edgerton, and keeps him 
here? He is courting Miss Waldron for 
her money — some people say he is en- 
gaged to her — and yet, while he is doing 
this, he comes day after day and spends 
hours here, pretending to hear you sing! ” 

“It is none of your business if he 
does ! ” cried Amy, exasperated beyond 
all thought of forbearance. “If you 
nave nothing more agreeable to say than 
this, I — I shall go into the house.” 

“Never mind; I will spare you the 
trouble by going myself. I have to leave, 
anyway, for I have no time to spare 
from my painting. I only dropped in to 
tell you the news about Miss Waldron’s 


kindness. I have spoken the honest 
truth, and I wish — oh ! I wish very much 
that you would heed it. Good-evening. 
I don’t know when I can come again.” 

He went away with a wistful look, 
which had no effect whatever upon Amy. 
She sent one scorching glance after the 
small, spare figure; then, with a shiver 
of passion that shook her whole frame, 
burst into a storm of tears. 

Unconscious of the tempest he left 
behind, Hugh passed through the garden 
and into the house. He had long been 
in the habit of coming and going like one 
of the family, so no one regarded him 
at present except Felix, who cried from 
the dining-room : “ Come to supper. 

Hugh! What are you going away for? 
And why don’t Amy come in ? ” 

“I don’t care for supper to-night, 
Felix ; thank you ! ” Hugh answered, as 
he let himself out of the front-door. 

He spoke so truly, that he did not 
even think of turning his steps toward 
his boarding-house, but walked slowly in 
the opposite direction, toward the sub- 
urbs of the town. Before he reached 
the open country the sunset splendor had 
faded, and only a faint, soft glow re- 
mained to show where it had been ; but 
tlie mingling of twilight and moonlight 
— for in the eastern heavens hung the 
silver, three-quarter moon — was very 
lovely, and might have tempted to linger- 
ing one less keenly alive to beauty. 

Yet, although he felt the beauty, it is 
certain that Hugh was not thinking of it. 
In truth, he could think of nothing save 
the scene in Mr. Reynolds’s garden and 
Amy’s passionate resentment of his warn- 
ing. He had considered deeply before 
he offered this warning, and, now that it 
had been received in such a manner, he 
hardly knew what else to do. He might 
speak to Mr. Reynolds, as Amy had an- 
grily suggested; but would that help 
matters? Would his opinion be likely 
to have any weight with the musician? — 
while he felt certain that Amy would 
never forgive such a step. 


42 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“What can I do?” he thought. 
“Amy would not have been so angry if 
she was not beginning to care for the 
fellow ; and he may be a scoundrel of the 
worst kind, for all she knows. It seems 
to me that if he was not, he would surely 
think of the harm he is doing by filling 
her head wdth all manner of foolish ideas 
and hopes. But, then, some people never 
think of anything but amusing them- 
selves, and he may be one of that sort. 
What if I were to speak to him ? But I 
hardly think there would be any good in 
that ; and where would I find an oppor- 
tunity to do so ? ” 

It was a boy’s idea, altogether foolish | 
and impractical, but Hugh could not ban- | 
ish it from his mind after it had once 
suggested itself. Miss Waldron’s words 
rose in his memory, “ Some of us are very 
careless, but we often err more from 
want of thought than want of heart.” 

Was it from want of thought that 
Marchmont was acting? If so, a word 
might be enough — a word might rouse 
the chivalry of his nature, and make him, I 
of his own accord, discontinue the visits ' 

’ I 

that had already set the gossiping tongues 
at work. 

Hugh absently seated himself on a 
stile as he made these reflections, and, 
with his face turned to the fading glory 
of the west, he did not observe that a 
pedestrian was crossing the field behind 
him — a man young, slender, well-dj’essed 
— in a word, Brian Marchmont. 

This gentleman had left Cedarwood 
a few minutes before, pleading an en- 
gagement in Edgerton which would not I 
allow him to accept the general’s hospita- j 
ble invitation to remain to dinner ; and 
as he walked across the sweet-smelling 
fields in the soft gloaming, he had a com- 
fortable sense of satisfaction with regard 
to his affairs, immediate and future. He 
had very nearly won all that he desired 
from Miss Waldron, and he felt thor- 
oughly assured that securing her definite 
promise to be his wife was only a ques- 
tion of time. 


Then, breaking the monotony of 
courtship, there was Amy— pretty, win- 
some Amy — to amuse his leisure hours 
with the piquant flavor of her Bohemi- 
anism. 

“ The blossoms of the garden are all 
very well,” he said to himself, “espe- 
cially such a stately rose as Beatrix ; but 
variety is the spice of life, and now and 
then one likes to gather a wild-flower 
from the woods.” 

Owing to the association of ideas, he 
w^as, half unconsciously, humming one of 
Amy’s songs as he drew near the stile — 
a song which Hugh knew so well that, 
hearing it, he turned abruptly and faced 
the man who was at that moment in his 
thoughts. 

The boy’s heart seemed to rise up in 
his throat. Here, in the most unexpected 
manner, was the opportunity he had been 
esteeming out of his reach ! Should he 
use it ? He had only a minute in which 
to answer this question. There was no 
time for reasoning or reflection ; instinct 
alone had to settle the matter, and instinct 
bade him act. 

He stepped down from the stile, and 
as Marchmont, having swung himself 
over, was about to pass without the least 
token of recognition, he gathered his 
courage, and said : 

“ If you will excuse me, Mr. March- 
mont, I should like to speak to you.” 

Marchmont paused, and, with a great 
deal of hauteur mingled with surprise on 
his face, he said, curtly : 

“ What do you want ? ” 

“ I will tell you in an instant what I 
want,” Hugh replied. “First, let me say 
that my name is Dinsmore.” 

“ I remember you,” Marchmont an- 
swered. “ I never forget a face. Pray, 
Mr. Dinsmore, what possible business 
have you with me ? ” 

There was so much hrusquerie in the 
tone of this question, that Hugh felt in- 
clined to reply, “ I have no business what- 
ever,” and go his way. But the thought 
of Amy checked the impulse. 


“SO LONG AS YOU ARE AMUSED.’ 


43 


There was nothing he would not en- 
dure for her sake; and surely if this man 
knew the harm he was working, his man- 
hood would assert itself in her behalf, 
and he would find some amusement for 
his idle hours fraught with less serious 
consequences. This consideration gave 
Hugh patience, and, lifting his clear eyes 
to the haughty, handsome face, he said, 
calmly ; 

“ My business with you is simply this : 
I am a friend of Amy Reynolds, and I 
want to tell you that you are doing her a 
great injury in bestowing so much time 
and attention on her. Gossips are al- 
ready beginning to talk about it, and a 
man like you must know what a misfor- 
tune it is to a young girl for her name to 
be on light tongues and in evil mouths.” 

“ By Jove ! ” said Marchmont. 

The exclamation was entirely involun- 
tary, and addressed to himself, being an 
expression of irrepressible surprise at the 
audacity of this shabby stripling. Then 
he laughed, and the scornful, contempt- 
uous cadence made every drop of blood 
in Hugh’s veins tingle. 

“My young friend,” he said, coolly, 
“ allow me to inform you that the best 
thing you can do is to attend to your own 
affairs. I have no doubt you are very 
jealous, but you can hardly expect to 
serve your cause by such absurdity as this. 
Pretty little Amy and I understand each 
other ; that ought to be enough. If it is 
not, so much the worse — for you.” 

With these words he was passing care- 
lessly on, when Hugh, quivering with in- 
dignation and fearless as a lion, placed 
himself in his path. 

“ Do you mean that you do not care 
what people say of Amy, so long as you 
are amused ? ” he asked. “ If that is the 
case, I tell you to your face, Mr. March- 
mont, that you are no gentleman! Y^ou 
know that you want to marry Miss Wal- 
dron, and yet you are trying to win 
Amy’s heart in the most dishonorable — ” 

“You are an insolent young fool!” 
said Marchmont. 


He had no cane in his hand, else Hugh 
might have fared badly ; but, slight as he 
looked, he was very muscular, and taking 
the boy by the collar, he flung him with 
great force into the middle of the road. 
Then, without pausing to see what was 
the result of this stringent measure, he 
walked on rapidly toward the town. 

Hugh lay motionless where he had 
been thrown — stunned into unconscious- 
ness by the heavy fall — and he had not 
yet stirred when, a minute later, a horse- 
man came cantering down the road. 

The horse first perceived the odd, 
dark, crumpled heap lying in the moon- 
light, and promptly bolted. His rider, 
having checked him up shortly, looked 
round for the cause of the fright. He, 
too, perceived then the dark figure, and 
muttering, “Some drunkard lying there 
to be run over,” dismounted, and throw- 
ing the rein over his arm, approached, 
and, bending down, lifted the boy’s face. 

“ What — Dinsmore ! ” he said aloud, in 
a tone of surprise. “Why, he is badly 
hurt! ” he added, quickly, as he found his 
hand wet from the blood which was trick- 
I ling from a cut on the forehead. 

As he spoke Hugh’s consciousness re- 
turned, and, opening his eyes, he looked 
up, half dazed. 

“ I want no assistance from you, Mr. 
Marchmont,” he said. “ You are a cow- 
ard.” 

“ I am not Mr. Marchmont,” said a 
voice that recalled his scattered senses. 
“ I found you lying here insensible. What 
has happened, Hugh ? ” 

“ Oh, you are Mr. Archer,” said Hugh. 
“ I — beg your pardon. Have I been here 
long, I wonder? Thank you, I think I 
can get up.” 

With Archer’s assistance he rose to 
his feet, and, though still trembling from 
the nervous shock, stood erect, stanching 
with a handkerchief the blood which 
flowed from the cut on his brow. 

“What has happened?” Archer re- 
peated. “ How did you come to be in 
such a situation? Lucky for you, my 


44 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


horse bolted, or I should have ridden over 
you, for I was looking toward the lights 
of the town, and noticing little of the 
road.” 

There was an instant’s silence before 
Hugh answered. Then he looked up and 
said, quietly : “ I would rather not tell you 
anything about it, Mr. Archer. 1 am 
obliged to you for helping me. I think I 
can walk back into town now.” 

“You had better ride my horse,” said 
Archer, looking at him keenly. “You 
have had a severe blow.” 

“Only from the fall,” said Hugh. 
“ There is no need for me to ride, thank 
you. I am used to walking, and I shall 
be all right in a little while.” 

Archer did not press the matter any 
further — indeed, it was never his way to 
press anything on people which they were 
unwilling to receive. But, as he mounted 
his horse and rode away, he felt consider- 
ably puzzled. The last person in the 
world whom he would have supposed 
Hugh likely to come in contact with was 
Brian Marchmont ; yet Hugh had plainly 
mistaken him for Marchmont, and had 
uttered words not easily forgotten. “ He 
meant them, too,” Archer said to him- 
self. “It is very odd! If Marchmont 
was the person who knocked him down 
and left him senseless, what could possi- 
bly have been the provocation ? Surely I 
did not make a mistake when I recom- 
mended the boy to Miss Waldron ! Every 
one speaks of him as quiet and inoffensive 
in the extreme.” 


I 


I 


Having left Hugh without even a 
backward glance to see whether or not he 
recovered from the stunning fall he had 
received, Mr. Marchmont walked intoEdg- 
erton, his usually well -moderated pulses 
beating with an excitement which, to say 
the least, was not pleasurable. 

This was a result he had not bargained 
for while spending the idle hours in light 
flirtation with the musician’s pretty 
daughter. To be called to account 
by “an insolent errand-boy,” as in his 


thoughts he characterized Hugh, was cer- 
tainly a novel and not an agreeable expe- 
rience. He laughed over it, but the laugh 
had no ring of real mirth. With the best 
intentions, Hugh had done the worse thing 
possible for Amy; he had waked the 
slumbering devil in Marchmont’s nature, 
and converted what had before been only 
amusement into deadly earnest. 

It was, however, characteristic of the 
sybarite nature of the man that he shook 
off annoyances as a Newfoundland dog 
shakes off water ; though putting aside 
the annoyance by no means implied put- 
ting aside the purpose it had wakened. His 
engagement in Edgerton was with two or 
three gay young gentlemen who chanced 
to be passing through the town — friends, 
or at least intimate acquaintances, whom 
he had accidentally encountered. In the 
course of the convivial evening which en- 
sued, no one entertained the faintest sus- 
picion that anything had occurred to ruf- 
fle the easy tranquillity of his spirits or 
cast the least weight upon his mind. In 
truth, Mr. Marchmont’s spirits and mind 
were not readily affected by insignificant 
trifles, and in this class he included his 
flirtation with Amy, and Hugh’s interfer- 
ence therewith. 

Had Amy been aware of this, she 
might have spared herself some Juliet-like 
fancies, as she sat by the parlor-window, 
looking at the moon sailing through an iris 
sky, while silver lights and broad, sharp- 
cut shadows made up the world below. 

Immersed in clouds of tobacco-smoke, 
her father and Herr Meerbach were talk- 
ing, while Felix, with a touch of masterly 
power and sweetness, was playing the 
“ Walpurgis Night.” The dreamy strains 
floated by Amy almost unheard. Her 
heart — the foolish heart of sixteen — was 
throbbing with pain and doubt. 

Could it be true that Marchmont was 
a suitor of Miss Waldron’s? Hugh had 
said so ; but Hugh was not likely to be 
well informed with regard to such ■ mat- 
ters, and, besides, he was jealous. 

“ I cannot believe it 1 ” she thought. 


MR. TRAFFORD OFFERS ADVICE. 


45 


passionately; then, with a spasmodic 
effort, common-sense asserted itself, as 
she added, mentally, “ What is it to me ? 
Mr. Marchmont has never done anything 
except admire my singing and say I am 
pretty. I am a fool to think anything 
about him, or care if he marries Miss 
W aldron to-morrow ! She is rich and 
handsome, and has been everywhere and 
seen everything. Oh ! ” — the long- 
drawn sigh ending in spoken words — “ I 
icisJi I was rich ! ” 

“Perhaps you may he, some day,” 
said a quiet, unexpected voice very near 
at hand. 


CHAPTER IX. 

ME. TEAFFOED OFFEE8 ADVICE. 

Amt started, and turned her head; 
hut it was no Mephistopheles who stood 
at her elbow, ready to gratify her long- 
ings by driving a bargain for the ultimate 
possession of her soul. As far removed 
as possible from that sulphuric personage 
was the pleasant, good-humored face that 
met her glance — the face of a gentleman 
who had paused by the window and looked 
with amusement at the pretty, wistful 
countenance on which the moonlight fell 
broadly. 

“O Mr. Trafford!” she said; “I 
didn’t know I spoke so loud that any one 
could hear my foolish wish ! ” 

“Not any one^^'' replied Mr. Trafford, 
“ but I was close at hand, and so I heard 
it. 1 am not sure about its foolishness,” 
he added, smiling. “ Wishing for riches 
is sometimes a first step toward obtaining 
them.” 

“ I shall be rich some day,” said Amy, 
confidently. “ I am certain of that. But 
I want to be so now^ 

“ You want the prize before you have 
won it ? I am surprised at you ! ” 

He spoke in a tone of half -laughing 
banter, as to a child ; but Amy looked up 
gravely in his face. 


“ I was reading, the other day,” she 
said, “ that after we have worked a long 
time for a prize, when at last we gain it, 
it has lost its value. If we could only 
have things at the start, and not wait to 
he tired out, how much better it would 
be ! ” 

“ Well,” said Mr. Trafford, with a long 
puff at the meerschaum which, as usual, 
he was smoking, “I am not sure about 
that. Without being much of a moralist, 
I have generally found that there’s a good 
reason for most things. If we gained 
I what we desire ‘ at the start,’ as you say, 
we should not only miss the discipline of 
labor, but often get a great many worth- 
less prizes. Suppose you come and take 
a turn round the square, and I will give 
you an instance of that from my personal 
experience? ” 

• Amy was nothing loath. She was 
tired of the house and everybody in it. 
There was something of novelty in a 
moonlight stroll with Mr. Trafford, and 
his promise to relate a “ personal experi- 
ence ” wakened her curiosity. She slipped 
out of the parlor, and in a minute stood 
I on the pavement by his side. 

I “Had you not better put something 
on your head ? ” he suggested, looking at 
her. “No? It is true, you have no neu- 
ralgia or rheumatism to dread yet a while. 
I hope you don’t object to my pipe ? I 
came out to smoke.” 

She laughed. “I’ve been sitting in a 
I room with two pipes,” she said, “so I 
could hardly object to one in the open 
air. I rather like the odor of good tobac- 
co, if there isn’t too much of it. Oh, 
what a heavenly night ! ” she added, with 
a soft sigh. 

“ Very pretty,” said Mr. Trafford, 
glancing round. “ To-morrow night the 
moon will be full.” 

“ I am always sorry for the moon to 
be full,” said Amy, “because then it be- 
gins to decline. I wish matters had been 
arranged so that we could have a moon 
all the time.” 

“ It is a pity you couldn’t live on the 


46 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


planet Saturn. Then you would have 
moons enough.” 

“I shouldn’t care for more than one 
at a time,” said Amy; but fearing that 
the extreme haziness of her ideas with 
regard to the moons of the planet Saturn 
might he exposed, she turned the conver- 
sation. “I'ou promised to tell me your 
experience about worthless prizes,” she 
said, glancing up at her companion. 

“ Yes,” he answered, a little absently. 
They were walking slowly along the 
moonlit street, and he gazed ahead with- 
out speaking for a minute or two. 

Then he smiled. “ I haven’t thought 
about it for years before,” he said. “ How 
old are you, my dear? Sixteen? Well, 
double your age — which, I suppose, you 
don’t consider a pleasant thing to do, even 
in imagination — and you’ll have the num- 
ber of years which have elapsed since ‘ I 
was a young man, in love with a girl only 
a little older than yourself. It seems odd, 
doesn’t it ? ” — rolling out a cloud of smoke 
as he met Amy’s eyes, full of curiosity — 

“ but it is true, and I can’t flatter myself 
that I was any less a fool than young 
men are nowadays. I was desperately in 
love, and desperately poor. Having re- 
ceived an assurance of affection and con- | 
stancy from the object of my passion, j 
however, the labor of making a fortune I 
seemed a trifle hardly worth considering. I 
When I set to work I naturally discovered 
my mistake ; but I struggled on, and by 
the time I was half-way up the hill which 
I proposed to climb, the girl to whom I 
was engaged grew tired of waiting, and 
married another man.” 

“ She jilted you ! Oh, how shame- 
ful ! ” cried Amy. 

Mr. Trafford removed his pipe from 
his mouth to laugh. “ I mustn’t obtain 
your sympathy under false pretenses,” he 
said. “ She dissolved the engagement in 
the most reasonable manner, and married ' 
a man who had a fortune in hand without 
the trouble of making it. I don’t remem- ! 
ber that I suffered from the disease known ! 
as heart-break in any excessive degree; I 


but I do remember that, by the time I 
reached the top of the hill, I was heartily 
obliged to her for having bestowed her- 
self upon somebody else, since life — which 
is like a crucible, to show what is base 
metal and what gold — had proved that 
she was a weak, extravagant w^oman, of 
bad temper and lax principles. Now, 
you see, if I had possessed my fortune at 
the start, I should have been burdened 
with that woman even to the present day, 
for she is not dead yet.” 

“ I see,” said Amy. “ How glad you 
must be to have missed her! But, as far 
as my wish is concerned,” she added, re- 
alizing that the moral of the story was 
intended for her benefit, “ there would 
be nothing of that kind to fear. If I 
were rich, I should be able to help other 
people — to send Felix to Germany, to let 
papa rest, to give *Jlariette and the boys 
every advantage.” 

“ Ah I ” said Mr. Trafford. “ I sup- 
pose you were thinking of these things 
when I overheard that wish you uttered 
so fervently a little while ago ? ” 

Even in the moonlight Amy’s deep 
blush was manifest. “ No,” she said, af- 
ter a moment’s hesitation, “I was not 
thinking of them. A — something made 
me think of Miss Waldron, and I wished 
I had money to go everywhere, and be- 
come accomplished and graceful, and be 
admired as she is.” 

“And fall a prey to some fortune- 
hunter, as she will probably do. How 
would you like that? ” 

“ Why should you think she will prob- 
ably do it ? ” said Amy, ignoring the ques- 
tion addressed to herself. 

“Why should I think so? That is 
easily answered : 

‘ Alas ! alas ! for the woman’s fate 
Who has from a mob to choose a mate I 
’Tis a strange and painful mystery ! 

But the more the eggs, the worse the hatch ; 
The more the fish, the worse the catch; 

The more the sparks, the worse the match — 
Is a fact in woman’s history ! ’ ” 

Amy was quite astonished at this sud- 


MR. TRAFFORD OFFERS ADVICE. 


47 


den “dropping into poetry” on the part 
of her elderly friend, and, having never 
read “ Miss Killrnansegg and lier Precious 
Leg,” the verse had the merit of novelty 
to her. 

“ I have heard the proverb about tak- 
ing a crooked stick at last,” she said. “ I 
suppose it amounts to the same thing. 
But do you know of anybody Miss Wal- 
dron is likely to marry just — just 
now ? ” 

“I have not the least knowledge of 
Miss Waldron’s affairs, matrimonial or 
otherwise,” replied Mr. Trafford. “ I have 
heard some gossip about a young man 
named Marchmont. By-the-by, haven’t 
you a slight acquaintance with him ? On 
the whole, my dear — if you will excuse a 
bit of advice — I think you would do well 
to keep it a slight.” 

“Do — do you know any harm of 
him ? ” asked Amy. 

Her voice quivered, but there was 
none of the defiance in it which had 
breathed for Hugh. 

“ I know no harm of him,” answered 
Mr. Trafford ; “ but I suppose you have 
heard of the spider and the fly. No doubt 
the spider was very good-looking, and 
pleasant, but the fly was very silly, for 
all that. I should not like you to be such 
a fly.” 

“There isn’t any danger of it,” said 
Amy, and a chord of indignation thrilled 
in her tone. 

“I hope not,” said her companion. 
“Now tell me about this plan of your 
father’s for sending your brother to Ger- 
many. tWhy does he not do it ? The boy’s 
talent ought to be cultivated.” 

“ I should think you might know why 
he doesn’t do it,” answered Amy. “ He 
has not the money.” 

“It would not take much,” said Mr. 
Trafford: 

“ That depends on how you look at 
it,” said Amy. “ It might not seem much 
to you^ but to papa it seems a great deal. 
You see ” — a sigh — “ it is awfully expen- 
sive to have a family I ” 

4 


“I suppose so,” said Mr. Trafford, 
with a laugh that made some loiterers on 
the other side of the street turn their 
heads. “ When a man has none, how- 
ever, it is only fliir that he should help 
the over-burdened people who have. Do 
you think your father would be offended 
if I offered to send your brother abroad ? ” 

“ Offended ! ” Amy stopped short and 
clasped her hands. “ O Mr. Trafford ! 
are you in earnest? Would you really 
do it? I think papa would accept such 
an offer gratefully, because, you see, it is 
Felix you would benefit, not him — and I 
should worship you I ” 

“Would you? Well, then, it is a 
bargain. Here we are at the house. 
Run in and see if that German has gone. 
If he has. I’ll speak to your father at 
once.” 

Luckily, “ that German ” was gone — 
if he had still been in the house, Amy 
would have been tempted to take him by 
the shoulders and put him out — and, more 
luckily still, Felix had accompanied him, 
while Mr. Reynolds remained at home. 
It was the hand of the older musician 
which was lingering over the keys in the 
dimly-lighted parlor when Amy entered, 
in a fever of excitement. 

“O papa!” she cried, “Mr. Trafford 
is here, and he wants to speak to you on 
very particular business.” 

“Ask him to come in,” said Mr. Rey- 
nolds, rising from the piano and fortify- 
ing himself by the thought that he did not 
owe Mr. Trafford any money, so “ very 
particular business ” could not have that 
significance. 

Mr. Trafford came in, and, like a man 
of business, went directly to his point; 
yet there was a delicacy in his mode of 
doing this, which proved that his nature 
was not without a certain fineness which 
many estimable natures lack. 

“ He had a large income,” he said, 
“no near relations, and very few person- 
al wants, so that Mr. Reynolds would 
confer a favor if he would allow him to 
bear the expense of sending Felix to Ger- 


48 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


many, and providing for his musical edu- 
cation after he reached there.” 

Mr. Reynolds, who had been talking 
over the question of expenses with Herr 
Meerhach, and had realized with a sense 
of despair that his narrow means could 
not possibly he stretched to cover them, 
felt as if the heavens opened and an angel 
suddenly spoke to him. For a minute he 
could not answer ; but; though usually 
one of the most undemonstrative of 
men, he seized Mr. Trafford’s hand and 
wrung it until that gentleman very nearly 
groaned aloud. 

By the time Felix returned, the matter 
had been settled, and there were tears on 
his father’s lashes when he put his arm 
round the hoy’s neck and told him the 
wonderful news. 

It was still wonderful news — news 
that seemed almost too good to he true — 
when Amy sat on the hack piazza the 
next morning, and, while the sunbeams 
played in and out among the meshes of 
her curly hair, virtuously proceeded to 
darn Felix’s socks. “If he is going 
away so soon, I must put his clothes in 
order,” she had said to herself on waking, 
and it was in this manner she set about 
that arduous task. Amy’s darning was 
very far from the perfection of art, but 
there was a great deal of good intention 
in the bungling stitches ; and as her needle 
traveled hack and forth, she was saying 
to herself, like a charm to keep weariness 
at bay, “ Felix is going to Germany ! ” 

On this refrain the sudden jingle of 
the door-bell broke sharply. 

Down went needle and thread and 
sock ; up sprang Amy, color flashing into 
her face, light into her eyes. “ Callers ” 
were unknown at the Reynolds house, 
therefore the person who rang in that 
imperative fashion could only be some 
one on business — as, for instance, the gro- 
cer’s boy with the grocer’s small account — 
or Marchmont. 

Hope whispered strongly that it might 
he the latter ; so Amy sped to the door 


and opened it, as once before, with trem- 
bling Angers. 

As once before, she encountered dis- 
appointment. Instead of Marchmont’s 
handsome face appeared the black coun- 
tenance of a well-dressed servant, who, 
almost without glancing at her, asked^ 
rapidly : 

“ Is Miss Reynolds at home ? ” 

“Yes, I am Miss Reynolds,” answered 
Amy. “ What do you — ” 

She stopped in her question, for, as 
she turned, she saw that a carriage was 
standing before the door — a carriage from 
which a lady bowed, and then, as the 
j servant approached, descended, 
i “It is Miss Waldron,” said Amy to 
herself. “ What on earth can she want? 

Miss Waldron, when they met, shook 
hands and uttered her greetings in her 
usual pleasant, kindly fashion, hut she 
was struck the while by the transfor- 
mation in Amy’s appearance since she 
had last seen her at anything like close 
quarters. In fact, Amy was at the age 
when a girl often astonishes even the 
members of her family by shooting, in a 
day, from childhood to womanhood. The 
pliant, rounded flgure had gained slender- 
. ness and grace ; the piquant face, woman- 
' ly expression. Miss Waldron was so 
much struck, that she was almost guilty 
; of staring after they entered the dingy 
parlor, and she was enthroned on the 
dingy horse-hair sofa. 

“ What a Hebe ! ” she was thinking, 
while she made a few commonplace in- 
quiries and remarks. 

These over, she said, frankly: “My 
dear, I am told that you have a beautiful 
voice, and I have come to ask if you will 
sing for me? ” 

Amy blushed vividly, not so much 
from the compliment as because the 
thought instantly occurred to her that 
only one person could have told Miss 
Waldron about her voice. “I am very 
willing to sing for you,” she answered; 
and, rising, she turned to the music-stand 
glad of an excuse to escape from the 


MR. TRAFFORD OFFERS ADVICE. 


49 


glance of the kind but keen dark eyes. 
“ Would you like any particular song ? ” 
she asked, after a minute had elapsed, 
broken only by the flutter of the sheet- 
music. 

“Not any,” Miss Waldron answered. 
“ Choose what you like best and can sing 
best.” 

So Amy chose the song she had learned 
last, and with her rendering of which both 
her father and Marchmont had professed 
themselves entirely satisfled. It was the 
beautiful music which Rubinstein has 
set to those exquisite words of Heine’s, 
“Thou’rt like unto a flower.” 

At the first clear note Miss Waldron 
lifted her eyebrows, and as the full com- 
pass and exquisite quality of the voice 
displayed itself, she rose in uncontrollable 
amazement and walked to the piano. 

“ Beautiful ! ” she cried, when the song 
ended — “ that is no term at all for your 
voice ! It is marvelous ! I had no idea 
of anything like it, though Mr. March- 
mont did say that you were a future suc- 
cessor of Nilsson and Patti.” 

“Did he say that to you?'"' asked 
Amy, quickly. Then she blushed again; 
but, with a self-possession that did her 
credit, considering her sixteen years and 
limited opportunities, she added, “ Mr. 
Marchmont has said some very kind things 
to me ; but people often say such things 
just to be pleasant, without exactly mean- 
ing them.” 

“I think he meant them all,” said 
Miss Waldron, looking at her ; and, as she 
looked, it suddenly occurred to the young 
lady to wonder what that “ all ” included. 
Could any son of Adam gaze into that 
face without admiring its fairness? — and 
would not most sons of Adam utter this 
admiration freely to a girl so young and 
so unprotected ? 

Miss Waldron was a woman of the 
world, and she knew that it was hardly 
likely Marchmont had limited his appre- 
ciation to the voice of the future successor 
of Nilsson and Patti. 

This thought flashed through her 


mind while she was uttering a few more 
words of sincere praise, after which she 
added : 

“ I am sorry I have not time to ask • 
you to sing another song for me this 
morning, but I shall not be satisfied until 
I hear you again. My object in coming 
was to ask a favor of you — a favor which 
I am more anxious for you to grant since 
I have heard your voice. I am to give a 
kind of fete — half ball, half concert — on 
the tenth of May, and I shall be obliged if 
you will promise to sing on that occasion.” 

So gracious was the tone of this re- 
quest, so entirely free from any suspicion 
of patronage, that Amy’s first sensation 
was one of rapture. 

The prospect of going to the Cedar- 
wood fUe was in itself ecstatic enough, 
but the thought of singing in public 
thrilled her heart to the core. Her eyes 
expanded, her lips sprang apart: 

“ Oh ! ” she cried, “ I shall be very, 
very glad to do so — if papa will let me.” 

There was a great change of tone and 
expression in the last words — a change 
which made Miss Waldron smile. 

“Do you think Mr. Reynolds will 
object ? ” she asked. 

“ I am afraid he will,” answered Amy. 

“ Then I must try my powers of per- 
suasion upon him, and I think I shall suc- 
ceed in making him consent. It will be 
an excellent opportunity for your debut^ 
and so I shall tell him.” 

“My debut! How delightful that 
sounds!” cried the girl, with sparkling 
eyes. 

“Rather a tame dkbut compared to 
what you will have some day,” answered 
Miss Waldron. “ But no doubt you will 
enjoy it; there is delight in the mere 
exercise of such a power as yours, I should 
think. Now I must say good-morning. 
I am very glad I came.” 

Glad she came ! What was her glad- 
ness compared to that of Amy, who, after 
the carriage had rolled away, clapped her 
hands over her head, and cried : 

“ Life has begun ! I knew it would! ” 


50 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


CHAPTEK X. 

“l WANDERED BY THE BEOOKSIDE.” 

Life began in such earnest for Amy, 
that the next few days went by like a 
dream. Mr. Reynolds, moved to unwont- 
ed amiability by the fact that Felix was 
going to Germany, consented for her to 
sing at Miss Waldron’s J^te ; but over and 
above the pleasure of practising for this, 
and the arrangement of a toilet for the 
occasion, was the strange, new delight 
which had come into her existence with 
Brian Marchmont. The girl was so 
young and inexperienced, that not all 
her native shrewdness availed to save 
her from the fate of those who love not 
wisely but too well. 

It may be said, in palliation of her 
folly, that Marchmont was one of the 
men whom Nature gifts with exceptional 
powers of fascination, and that his suc- 
cess with women was proverbial among 
all who knew him. 

“ He has a knack of making them fall 
in love with him ! ” his friends would 
remark to one another ; and Marchmont 
himself certainly was not ignorant of his 
attractive qualities. 

There is no denying that, after his un- 
fortunate encounter with Hugh Dins- 
more, he exerted these qualities to the 
utmost with Amy, resolutely thrusting 
aside any suggestion which prudence or 
conscience made. 

The last was too well trained to trouble 
him, while with regard to the first he 
said, with an impetuosity which was 
occasionally one of his characteristics, 
that there was only spice enough of risk 
to give zest to the affair, and that it was 
a risk well worth running, since he had 
not been so interested before for years. 

“By heaven! that little witch is ten 
times more piquant and charming than 
any or all of the society-bred women 
with whom I am acquainted,” he said to 
himself. “If she were in the remotest 


degree eligible, I might be tempted to 
think that I had found my fate at last.” 

So it came to pass that Amy was led 
— she did not pause to consider where. 
Those hours in the dingy parlor when 
she sang for Marchmont, those hours in 
the neglected garden when they sat under 
the trees where white blossoms had given 
place to green leaves, and those golden 
hours when they wandered through the 
lovely spring woods, all did their work 
thoroughly. If any thought of warning 
ever came to her, she put it away. The 
cup of nectar which was held to her lips 
she drank eagerly, without pausing to con- 
sider the consequences. Like a flower 
exposed to a tropical sun, she seemed to 
grow lovelier and more mature every hour ; 
but there was no mother’s eye to note the 
change and read its meaning. 

Her father was absent during the 
greater part of every day, and, though he 
knew Marchmont as a stranger who had 
been much struck with Amy’s voice and 
came occasionally to hear her sing, his 
daughter was still in his eyes so entirely 
a child, that he never thought of the re- 
sult which a woman would have been 
quick to foresee. 

One thing which conduced to this 
state of security was the caution which 
Marchmont had of late displayed in the 
matter of his visits. He seldom came 
to the house, preferring to meet Amy 
in some place — like the woodland glen 
where he first saw her — remote from the 
eyes of gossips. It was not so much 
Hugh’s expostulation which led to this, 
as a few words which Miss Waldron ut- 
tered. 

“ I went, this morning, to hear your 
soprano sing,” she said to him, on the 
evening of the day when she paid her 
visit to Amy ; “ and you are right about 
her voice — it is wonderful 1 But you did 
not mention that her face is nearly as 
remarkable.” 

To this Marchmont, whose self-pos- 
session was imperturbable, replied : “ Yes, 
she is very pretty ; but I did not mention 


“I WAIJDERED BY THE BROOKSIDE.” 


51 


her face because I thought you knew all 
about her.” 

“ I know all about her in a certain 
way — that is, I have seen her running 
about the streets ever since she was a lit- 
tle thing ; but I was not in the least aware 
until to-day that she had shot into a 
woman, or that she was so beautiful. 
Why, she fairly dazzled me when I first 
saw her in that dark, narrow passage! 
Hebe herself never had more delicious 
coloring; and I hope you don’t mean me 
to believe that you have not gone there as 
much to admire that bewitching face as 
to hear her voice ! ” 

There was no jealousy in the tone 
of this remark — only a certain satirical i 
amusement — and it was accompanied 
by a smile which defied contradiction. 
Marchmont, however, was not foolish I 
enough to think of denying the charge. 

“I always admire beauty wherever 
I find it,” he said, calmly, “and this girl 
has genuine beauty. But there are plenty 
of pretty girls in the world, and it is only 
her voice which has attracted me, and 
made me spend some idle hours — for I 
can’t possibly bore you with my presence 
all the time, and Edgerton is a desert to 
me — in her father’s house.” 

“ I suppose there is no harm in hear- 
ing her sing,” said Miss Waldron, “but 
the girl is so singularly pretty, that 1 am 
afraid you may be tempted to amuse these 
idle hours by flirting with her. Nay, 
don’t look so virtuous ; I know the world, 
and I know the habits of the men of the 
world like you^ sir ! What I wish to re- 
quest is, that you will forego this amuse- 
ment — for my sake, if you please. I do 
not want that bright face shadowed be- 
fore its time. Will you promise to let her 
alone i ” 

“ I will promise never to see her again, 
if you like,” he answered, carelessly; 

“ but I think you overrate my power of 
doing mischief, and I am sure you over- 
rate my intentions. Let me tell you that 
a man only flirts when his heart is empty 
— never when it is filled by — ” 


“ Oh, never mind about that 1 ” she 
interrupted, with impatience. “ 1 am not 
interested in your heart, but in your 
conduct ; and I desire you not to flirt 
with this child.” 

“And I answer to that, as to any other 
command you choose to lay upon me : To 
hear is to obey.” 

“ I hope that I may trust you to obey,” 
she said, looking at him steadily ; and he 
felt a conviction that he must be careful, 
for this woman was no fond fool, who 
could be hoodwinked at a man’s pleasure. 

It chanced that among the guests din- 
ing at Cedarwood that evening was Mr. 
Traflbrd, and at this point he crossed the 
i floor and installed himself in a large chair 
by the side of his young hostess. 

“ I suppose you are aware that you 
I have made one person very happy to- 
day, Miss Waldron,” he said, after a few 
preliminary remarks ; while Marchmont 
mentally confounded his impudence, yet 
feared to go away, not knowing what 
report might be made behind his back ; so 
he sat still, stroking his mustache, and 
looking supercilious — a look entirely 
wasted on Mr. Trafford. 

“ Have I ? ” said Beatrix. “ I am glad 
to hear it; but I do not know to whom 
you allude.” 

“ Are you, then, in the habit of mak- 
ing people happy ? ” he asked. “ If so, 
you are a very wise young lady — and, I 
may add, an uncommon one.” 

“ I should like to feel that I deserve 
such commendation,” she answered, “ but 
I really do not. It is very rarely that it 
is in my power to make any one happy, 
and to-day — ” 

“ To-day you have invited a little girl 
to sing for you who will probably, before 
she dies, sing for royal personages — and 
have thereby given her more pleasure 
than the kings and queens will ever be- 
stow.” 

“Do you mean Amy Reynolds? Is 
it possible that you know her ? ” said Miss 
Waldron, astonished, and beginning to 
think that Amy must be growing famous. 


52 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


since this orderly man of business was 
acquainted, with her. 

He smiled. 

“ 1 board at Mrs. Crenshaw’s,” he said, 
“and am, therefore, a next-door neighbor 
of Mr. Reynolds. The gardens of the 
two houses adjoin, and occasionally I look 
over the wall — as Mr. Marchmont is 
aware.” 

Mr. Marchmont managed to appear 
more indifferent than he felt. 

“ I remember you astonished me very 
much by looking over the wall one after- 
noon,” he said. 

“That occasion served as a warning 
tome,” responded Mr. Trafford. “ Find- 
ing that I was likely to disturb interesting 
conversations, I have, since then, refrained 
from entering an appearance unless I had 
good reasons for believing that the coast 
was clear. This afternoon, however, I 
heard such a tide of melody rising from the 
garden, that I felt constrained to glance 
over and ask what had inspired the song- 
stress. Then I was told the story of your 
invitation,” he said, looking at Miss Wal- 
dron. 

“ I am pleased to have made the child 
happy,” she said. “I heard her voice 
this morning for the first time, and was 
amazed by it ! ” 

“ It is a wonderful voice,” said Mr. 
Trafford. “She will make a sensation 
when she appears on the stage.” 

“ I wish she could be saved from that,” 
said Miss Waldron. “ She is so young, so 
pretty ! ” 

“Saved from it!” repeated March- 
mont, with a laugh. “ I do not think she 
would be obliged to any one who saved 
her. She pants for the triumph and ex- 
citement and splendor before her.” 

“Yes, it would be altogether useless 
to attempt to induce her, for any object 
whatever, to resign the career she has de- 
termined upon,” said Mr. Trafford, with 
such a thorough air of knowing all about 
the matter that Miss Waldron betrayed 
in her face the surprise she felt. 

At this moment General Waldron came 


1 up and carried the elder gentleman off to 
a whist-table, greatly to Marchmont’s 
relief ; but the evil star of the latter w'as 
plainly in the ascendant, for who should 
advance to take the vacant seat but Arch- 
er, whose first remark was : 

“ I have not been able to ask before. 
Miss Waldron, what you thought of the 
boy whom I sent here by your request? ” 

“Have 1 not yet thanked you for exe- 
cuting my commission so well ? ” she re- 
plied, with a smile. “ I was exceedingly 
pleased with him. He is talented and 
modest and honest, I am sure.” 

“ He certainly bears an excellent char- 
acter, so far as I can learn,” said Archer, 
“ and, as I told you, deserves encourage- 
ment.” 

“ Then,” said Marchmont, speaking 
on an impulse of irritation which he could 
not restrain, “ you will have the satisfac- 
tion of feeling yourself accountable if 
your 'protege walks a’way with a valuable 
I picture which Miss Waldron has intrusted 
to him. 

“ The miniature of my great-great- 
grandmother,” said Beatrix, as Archer 
looked at her. “ Mr. Marchmont thinks 
I have been imprudent ; but it was impos- 
sible to look in that boy’s clear eyes with- 
out feeling convinced of his integrity.” 

“ Clear eyes are not always proofs of 
integrity,” said Archer, smiling. “Per- 
haps Mr. Marchmont distrusts the boy be- 
cause he knows something of him,” he 
added, glancing at Marchmont with a 
keenness which that gentleman felt and 
resented. 

“ I know that he is an errand-boy, or 
something of the kind, in Mr. Lathrop’s 
business-house,” he answered, somewhat 
haughtily. “My knowledge of him be- 
gins and ends with that fact.” 

“ It seems to me that I know more of 
him,” said Miss Waldron, musingly. “ I 
mean, that he is connected with some one 
— ah, I have it ! His face was in a meas- 
ure familiar to me, but I could not place 
it. Now I remember that I have often 
seen him with Amy Reynolds. I wonder 


“I WANDERED BY THE BROOKSIDE.’ 


53 


if he is in love with her ! What a charm- 
ing match they would make ! ” 

“ Who, Beatrix ? ” asked a young lady 
not far oif, attracted by the animated 
tone in which these words were pro- 
nounced. 

“No one in whom you are interested, 
my dear,” answered Beatrix. — “Don’t 
you think my idea is a good one, Mr. 
Marchmont ? Two artistic souls who be- 
gin in Bohemia and end — where shall we 
say ? ” 

“ Where, indeed ? ” said Marchmont, 
who could not repress his disgust. “ The 
idea is sacrilege ! The lout is no doubt 
in love with pretty Amy, but she is — ” 

He paused, conscious that Archer was 
regarding him with a rather peculiar gaze. 

“Does she not like him ? ’’ asked Miss 
Waldron. “What a pity! 

‘ But ’tis just these women’s way, 

All the same this wide world over ; 

Fooled by what’s most worthless, they 
Cheat in turn the honest lover.’ ” 

“ If a man had ventured to quote those 
sentiments, you would have called him a 
slanderer,” said Archer. 

“ A man wrote them,” she answered, 
“ but I fear, alas 1 he was not a slander- 
er.” 

When Marchmont went away from 
Cedarwood that night, he told himself 
that he must be more cautious in his flir- 
tation with the unfledged prima donna. 
He was in a position where he could not 
aflford to lose the substance of what he 
most desired for a shadow, however sweet 
and fair that shadow might be. 

Yet several reasons made it impossible 
for him to obey Miss Waldron’s request 
and let Amy alone. For one thing, Amy 
had grown necessary to his — amusement. 
He was oddly conscious of being restless 
and ill at ease, “like a boy in love,” he 
thought scornfully, when he did not see 
her; and he was far too much of an epi- 
curean to deny himself any pleasure with- 
in his reach. 

Then, Hugh’s presumption was to be 


punished in the way Hugh would feel 
most, and — well, there were manifold 
reasons why matters should go on a little 
longer exactly as they were. 

“ After the fete I will make Beatrix 
give me a deflnite answer, and then I will 
go away for a while,” he thought. “ That 
will end everything best.” 

It was an eminently masculine deci- 
sion, and, having made it, Mr. March- 
mont felt relieved in mind. So the idle 
days went on in their accustomed fashion. 
April sun and rain made the earth more 
lovely every hour, and when May came, 
crowned with a thousand flowers, Nature 
seemed to welcome her favorite child 
with an ecstasy of rejoicing. 

Into Amy’s small chamber the sun- 
shine streamed in a tide of golden bright- 
ness one afternoon, and found her stand- 
ing before the mirror, trying on a hat 
which she had just trimmed. It was ex- 
quisitely fresh and pretty, though fash- 
ioned of the simplest materials, and the 
face beneath it was lovely as any blossom 
of the May — so lovely, that it smiled with 
pleasure at its own reflection. 

. “Are you going to walk, Amy?” in- 
I quired a small, eager voice at the half- 
open door. “ May I go with you ? ” 

“No, Mariette, you may not,” an- 
swered Amy, with decision. “I am 
going out — on business. You must stay 
at home, like a good girl, until I come 
back. Oh, for pity’s sake, don’t cry I ” as 
Mariette’s face puckered up ominously. 
“ You may have anything in the house to 
play with, if you’ll only stay and keep 
quiet.” 

“ I’d rather go ! ” said Mariette, not 
much impressed with this sweeping offer. 

“ But you can’t go ! ” said Amy. Then, 
to cut the discussion short, she snatched 
her parasol and ran down-stairs. 

When Mariette heard the house-door 
close, she lifted up her voice in bewail- 
ing ; but there is little pleasure in crying 
unless somebody can be disturbed, and in 
the present instance there was nobody to 
be disturbed, for Clara — the only person 


54 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


left in the house — was too deaf to hear 
the tearless howls; consequently they soon 
ceased, and remembering Amy’s permis- 
sion with regard to having anything she 
liked to play with, Mariette looked round 
to see what she would choose. It did 
not take her long to decide, for Amy’s 
treasures were few — a toilet- box, an al- 
bum, usually kept out of her reach, to- 
gether with a few old-fashioned, gor- 
geously bound annuals that had belonged 
to Mrs. Reynolds. On these she laid her 
hands, and, having piled them carefully in 
her apron and gathered up the hem to 
form a bag, she proceeded down-stairs. 

It chanced that Amy, on going out, 
closed the house-door so carelessly behind 
her, that it had swung open again ; and 
when Mariette came round the curve of 
the staircase, she was surprised to see a 
tall, handsome lady in glistening silk 
standing on the threshold. Such a vis- 
itor was so unexpected that the little 
maiden’s eyes opened wide, and, in her 
haste to descend more rapidly, the arti- 
cles in her apron slipped out of the cor- 
ner thereof and came crashing down- 
stairs before her. 

“I expected that,” said the lady, 
advancing. Then, with her delicately 
gloved hands, she picked up one or two 
of the books. “You should not try to 
carry so many things at once,” she 
said. “ What are you going to do with 
these ? ” 

“lam going to take them in the gar- 
den, and play keeping store with Hetty 
Crenshaw,” replied Mariette, looking up 
with great, blue, unabashed eyes. “Amy 
said I might have anything I liked to play 
wTth. Do you want to see Amy ? She’s 
gone out.” 

“ I am sorry for that,” said Miss Wal- 
dron — for it was she — smiling, and think- 
ing how very pretty the child was. Al- 
most unconsciously she added, “Where 
has Amy gone ? ” 

Mariette set her ringleted head on 
one side with an air of wisdom. “I 
don’t know exactly,” she answered. 


“Amy said she was going out on busi- 
ness, but I expect she went to walk with 
Mr. Marchmont ; she almost always 
does.” 

This was information Miss Waldron 
had not anticipated, and the blood rushed 
to her cheek as if she had been detected 
in something unworthy. It was evident 
that she could have learned anything else 
that Mariette knew, but, instead of asking 
further questions, she opened her card- 
case and drew out a card. “ Give that 
to your sister,” she said, “ and tell her 
that I came to make some arrangements 
about the fete. Good-by, and don’t try 
to carry so many books again.” 

She was passing out, when Mariette 
espied a bit of pasteboard lying at the 
foot of the staircase, which she immedi- 
ately seized. 

“Did you drop this? ” she asked, run- 
ning after Miss Waldron, who turned, 
glanced at the card, hesitated an instant, 
then took it. 

On one side was Brian Marchmont’s 
name; on the other a pressed fern was 
pinned, and written underneath, in an un- 
formed, girlish hand, were a date and 
four words : “ The beginning of life.” 

Mariette wondered what made the lady 
silent for a minute — a minute, during 
which she gazed at this which had oddly 
drifted into her hands. She knew at 
once that it had fallen from one of the 
books Mariette dropped, but she also knew 
that in a certain sense it was hers, since 
the date proved that this was the fern she 
had given Marchmont on the day when 
he asked her to be his wife. 

Her resolution was quickly taken. 
The proud lips set themselves with a cer- 
tain defiant firmness, as she opened her 
card-case and slipped the waif of senti- 
ment within. 

“ Thank you, my dear,” she said, and 
went away. 

Amy, meanwhile, had left the streets 
behind and walked toward the woods, 
which at the present season were full of 
the freshest, sweetest beauty of spring. 


“I WANDERED BY THE BROOKSIDE.” 


55 


About a quarter of a mile beyond the out- 
skirts of the town she reached a creek, 
overhung by trees and draped with the 
vines that make Southern water-courses 
so w'onderfully picturesque. 

Turning from the road, which crossed 
a bridge here, she tripped lightly along 
the bank of the stream for some distance, 
with a look of expectation in her eyes — a 
look which suddenly changed to delight 
as, not far off, she saw a slender, shapely, 
masculine figure, clad in cool gray, lying 
on the green bank under the shade 'of 
overhanging boughs, while a fishing-rod 
was propped against a tree near by, and 
obligingly leaned forward so that its line 
touched the water. 

The hat of the gentleman was pulled 
over his eyes, so that he would hardly 
have been the wiser for a dozen bites ; 
but he heard Amy’s step, and, springing 
up, met her with both hands outstretched 
in eager welcome — all listlessness gone 
out of his handsome face, his hat pushed 
back, showing the damp, dark curls that 
clustered round his forehead. 

“ So you have come at last! ” he said, 
smiling. “ I have been waiting and watch- 
ing for an hour at least.” 

“You may have been waiting,” said 
Amy, saucily, “but you certainly were 
not watching. I thought, when I came 
in sight, that you were asleep.” .. 

“ I think I w(M asleep, and dreaming 
of you. But your step would wake me 
out of the deepest sleep that humanity 
knows. Don’t you remember what the 
lover says in ‘ Maud ’ ? — 

‘ She is coming, my own, my sweet ! 

Was there ever so airy a tread ? 

My heart would hear it and beat. 

Were it earth in an earthy hed I ’ ” 

“How much of that must I believe?” 
asked Amy, with a smile brimful of co- 
quetry. “ I don’t think hearts like yours 
beat much when they are out of an earthy 
bed, and therefore they are not likely to 
be disturbed when in it.” 

He laughed — more gayly than he was 
in the habit of laughing. 


“ Have you an exhaustive knowledge 
of hearts like mine?” he asked. “You 
talk like a llasee fiirt of thirty, and the 
tone is very piquant on such childish 
lips.” 

“Childish!” repeated Amy, and the 
lips in question curled. “ If I am child- 
ish, who is grown ? Children don’t feel 
what I do, or desire what I do, or hate 
what I do. Childish! You don’t know 
what you are talking about, Mr. March- 
mont.” 

“ Don’t I ? ” said Mr. Marchmont, with 
a glitter of amusement in his eyes. “ So 
much the better! If I am ignorant, I 
must be instructed. Sit down here; I 
arranged the seat for you. By Jove, how 
delightful this is! Hereafter I shall go 
in strongly for pastoral pleasures. Who 
would exchange such a place as this for 
any drawing-room on the face of the 
earth ? ” 

“I am afraid it is damp,” suggested 
Amy, “ and a little snaky ; but we don’t 
mind about that.” 

“]Not at all. Your friend, Mr. Traf- 
ford, might object to the dampness, but 
fortunately he is not here. As for the 
snakes, they might come in regiments, and 
I should defy them. Ah ! ” — a genuine 
sigh — “if life were always like this — 
made up of blue sky and golden sunshine, 
and flowers and rippling water, and 
crowned with the oldest and sweetest 
thing in existence ! ” 

“What is that? ” asked Amy, a little 
wonderingly. 

“ It is love, my dear,” he answered — 
“ love, that sooner or later makes fools of 
us all. Just now I am perfectly conscious 
of my folly ; but I would not exchange it 
for the wisdom of sages.” 

“If you consider it folly, I wonder 
you indulge it,” said Amy, who did not 
think this very complimentary. 

“ Do you wonder ? That proves you 
can’t see yourself. If you could — bah! 
w’hat is the good of talking? Love ex- 
ists because it exists ; we know no more 
I than that. Amy, this is not the first time 


56 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


by many that I have told you I love you, 
hut you have never yet given me any as- 
surance in return. I have not asked for 
it, because of many fetters upon my life ; 
but now I feel that I must have it. 
We are young, hope is strong, the future 
can take care of itself ; let us make the 
most of the sunshine Fate has given us. 
Sweetheart ” — he drew her into his arms 
and kissed her dewy lips passionately 
once, twice, thrice — “ tell me here, now, 
that you love me ! ” 

She looked up, with her eyes shining, 
a scarlet fire burning on her cheek. Well 
as he knew her beauty, at this moment it 
almost electrified him. 

“I love you with all my heart! ” she 
answered. “ I never knew what love 
meant before, but now I have — ” 

She stopped as if she had been shot, 
and Marchmont drew her quickly back 
into the deeper shade behind them. There 
had been the sound of a crackling twig 
crushed by a hasty foot on the other side 
of the creek, and, looking across, they 
saw a man’s figure disappear in the shim- 
mering obscurity of green-and-gold among 
the brown tree-boles. 


CHAPTER XI. 

WOULD YOU LIKE TO PAY YOUR DEBT ? ” 

“ How charmed I am to see you, Be- 
atrix ! ” said Florence Lathrop, sweeping 
into the handsome drawing-room where 
Miss Waldron sat. “There is not a soul 
at home but myself, and solitude does not 
agree with me. Come up to my room, 
won’t you? It is so much more sociable. 
What a lovely color you have! I sup- 
pose the heat has given it to you.” 

“ Exercise, perhaps,” answered Bea- 
trix, as they left the drawing-room — 
which certainly had an oppressive air of 
state — crossed the hall, and ascended 'the 
broad, easy staircase. “ One of the 
horses cast a shoe as we entered town ; so 


I sent the carriage to the blacksmith’s, 
and have walked from R — Street here.” 

“ How disagreeable 1 ” said Florence, 
sympathizingly. 

They entered her room as she spoke 
— a boudoir-like nest of blue-and-white, 
with a pleasant breeze fluttering through 
the wide, lace-draped windows. 

“ Take this chair and rest — or will you 
try the couch ? ” 

“ This is very comfortable, thank 
you,” answered Beatrix, sinking into the 
depths of the chair and unfurling a 
fan. “I am not very tired — only warm. 
And so you are the only member of the 
household at home? That is singular — 
isn’t it? ” 

“It may be singular that I should be 
at home, but it is not at all singular that 
the rest should be out. Mamma and 
Anna are visiting, as usual ; papa and Ed- 
ward are never at home this time of day. 
Eunice asked for the pony-phaeton to 
drive one of her friends, and Brian has 
gone fishing ; so here I am all alone, and 
delighted to see you ! ” 

“ Mr. Marchmont has gone fishing ! ” 
said Beatrix, as carelessly as possible. “ I 
should not have imagined that he liked 
such amusements.” 

“Nor I,” responded her companion; 
“ but he declares that he is very fond of 
it. Edward laughs at him, however, be- 
cause he never brings back any fish.” 

“And how does he account for that? 

I have observed that when people like to 
do a thing, they always do it well; and 
fishing, I am sure, is no exception to the 
rule.” 

“ Brian says that his object in going 
fishing is not so much to catch fish as to 
lie on a bank and look at the blue sky and 
the green trees and the water, and enjoy 
a kind of dolce far niente.'''' 

“Indeed!” said Miss Waldr.on. Her 
lip curled as she bent forward and ar- 
ranged a fold of her dress. “ I should 
never have suspected him of such pastoral 
tastes.” 

“ Probably they have developed be- 


WOULD YOU LIKE TO PAY YOUR DEBT? 


57 


cause he is in love. I don’t know much 
about the tender passion myself, but I 
think I have heard that people grow pas- 
toral when they are in love.” 

“ I think I have heard so, too — espe- 
cially under certain circumstances,” said 
Beatrix, a little dryly. “We need not dis- 
cuss Mr. Marchmont’s tastes, however. 
If he likes fishing, by all means let him 
fish ; a man whose profession is idleness 
must do something, I suppose.” 

“Oh, Beatrix! that is really too se- 
vere, when you know that Brian’s abili- 
ties are so great that he is certain to be a 
very distinguished man one of these days.” 

Miss Waldron elevated her shapely 
shoulders slightly, but very significantly. 
Evidently Mr. Marchmont was not in 
her good graces at the present time. 

“ I am afraid somebody has been try- 
ing to prejudice you against Brian,” said 
Miss Florence, who, being proud of her 
cousin, and in a manner attached to him, 
was sincerely anxious that he should win 
the young heiress. “ Perhaps it was that 
disagreeable Mr. Archer, who plainly 
wants to marry you himself.” 

“Florence!” said Miss Waldron, 
“what do you mean by such an absurd- 
ity ? ” 

“ I mean exactly what 1 say,” returned 
that young lady, “ and you need not try 
to awe me by majestic looks. When 
Brian first suggested the idea to me, I 
said that, of course, you knew it — that 
women always know such things; and 
I’m sure that is true, for /can tell the 
minute a man falls in love ; but when I 
saw you with Mr. Archer at Cedarwood 
the other day, I began to think you didn't 
know, and I felt I ought to give you a 
hint.” 

“ You are very kind,” said Beatrix, 
half amused, half vexed ; “ but I am not 
quite so obtuse as you imagine. I, too, 
can tell when a man is in love, and I am 
glad to be able to assure you that you are 
altogether mistaken with regard to Mr. 
Archer.” 

“ You are altogether mistaken, but I 


am not!” said Miss Florence, energeti- 
cally. “ I would stake anything on the 
fact that the man is in love with 
you ! ” 

“ You would lose whatever you staked, 
then,” said Beatrix, her vexation getting 
the better of amusement. “ Let us change 
the subject.” 

The subject was changed, and when 
Miss Waldron’s carriage was presently 
announced, she took her departure, hav- 
ing discovered without any trouble all 
that she wanted to know. 

“ So Mr. Marchmont goes fishing at 
I the same time that Amy Reynolds goes 
I to walk!” she said to herself. “Not 
difficult to tell what that means. The 
question is, how can I end the matter 
best ? — or is it worth ending at all ? ” 

She was still debating this question 
when her carriage rolled into the gates of 
j Cedarwood, the beautiful grounds stretch- 
J ing away on each side, and looking doubly 
beautiful in the golden light and long 
shadows of the westering sun. 
j As the carriage drew up before the 
hall-door a young man emerged there- 
I from. For one moment her heart leaped, 
i and she said to herself that she had done 
! Marchmont injustice, since he was here 
to meet her — when she saw that, instead 
of Mai-chmont, it was Archer ! 

She was too thoroughly trained in the 
ways of the world to evince any sign of 
j the 'recollection of Florence Lathrop’s 
1 words, which came to her as soon as she 
' saw his dark, quiet face. 

She merely uttered an ordinary greet- 
I ing, and gave him her hand as he assisted 
, her to alight; then, when they were 
standing on the portico, she said, care- 
1 lessly : 

I “I suppose you have been with papa, 
Mr. Archer ? ” 

“No,” Archer answered, “the gen- 
eral is not at home. I hope you will ex- 
cuse my dusky appearance,” he added, 
with a slight smile. “I have been five 
or six miles in the country to see a dying 
client, and, since the day was so fine, I 


58 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


walked to his house and hack. I am on 
my way into Edgerton now, but feeling a 
little tired, I took the liberty of making 
a short cut through your grounds, and of 
resting for a few minutes in the house.” 

“I am glad you thought of doing so,” 
said Miss Waldron, cordially. “You 
must come in and take some refreshment 
— oh, I insist upon it ! You need not be 
afraid that I will offer you cake. I know 
masculine tastes better than that.” 

“ I am afraid of nothing but kindness j 
from your hands,” he answered, with an- j 
other smile ; and for the first time Bea- 
trix noticed how pleasantly his usually 
grave face lit up when he smiled ; “ but 
I will not trouble you, for I must go on 
to Edgerton. I have special business 
waiting for me there.” 

“ I am inclined to think that you have 
forgotten the old fable about the strung 
bow,” she said. “ According to the ac- 
count you give of yourself — and that every 
one else gives of you — you have always 
special business waiting for you. When 
a plea is brought forward so constantly, 
one is obliged to doubt it a little after a 
while. Now, will you think me imperti- 
nent if I ask what is your business this 
afternoon, and why it is so pressing that 
you cannot stay and take a cup of tea 
with me? I know you like tea, Mr. 
Archer.” 

If Beatrix had been questioned, she 
could hardly have told why she thus urged 
her point, except that Archer looked 
worn and tired — surest appeal to a wom- 
an’s sympathy — and that she resolutely 
determined to ignore Miss Lathrop’s sug- 
gestion, and not to let it influence her con- 
duct in the least. 

Nevertheless she was forced to see 
that something in her last speech affected 
Archer singularly ; a strange, swift ex- 
pression passed over his face, and his eyes 
suddenly drooped, as if unable to meet 
her own. He hesitated for an instant, 
then said, quietly : 

“ You are very kind, but I cannot wait 
— not even for the pleasure of drinking 


a cup of tea with you. I should not have 
stopped merely to rest, but I wanted a 
minute to think, and I went into your 
drawing-room as a good place to collect 
my thoughts and focus them into a reso- 
lution.” 

“That sounds mysterious,” said Miss 
Waldi'on, surprised and a little curious; 
“but I will not be impertinent enough to 
ask any more point-blank questions.” 

“ I would willingly answer your ques- 
tion, if I could,” said Archer, looking at 
her now — very oddly she felt — “ but it is 
impossible. I wonder,” he said, with a 
change of subject so abrupt that it fairly 
startled her, “ whether women ever care to 
know anything further of a man than that 
he is handsome, graceful, and well-versed 
in drawing-room accomplishments? ” 

“ What on earth has come over him ? ” 
thought Beatrix. Aloud, she said : “I 
don’t know about most women, but I can 
answer decidedly for myself, that I cer- 
tainly desire to know something more 
than that. I would trust no man whose 
integrity failed to bear any test to which 
it could be subjected. I would never for- 
give ” — and her eyes flashed with a quick 
remembrance of Marchmont — “ anything 
that came under the head of treachery to 
myself or another ! ” 

What was there in that glance of 
Archer’s which made her feel as if he 
was pitying her? He only said, “ I hope 
you may never have to endure it,” bowed, 
and went away. 

Beatrix stood still and watched him 
as he walked across the lawn to the side- 
gate. “ How strange ! how very strange ! ” 
she said, half aloud. “Surely he must 
know something. I wish I had asked him 
plainly what it was.” 

Archer, who at his best ^was a capi- 
tal pedestrian, did not occupy many min- 
utes in reaching Edgerton. Having en- 
tered the town, he went straight to his 
office, wrote a short note, inclosed it in 
an envelope, which he sealed and ad- 
dressed to Hugh Dinsmore, and sent it to 
the boarding-house of the latter, with 


“WOULD YOU LIKE TO PAY YOUR DEBT?” 


59 


directions that it be left for him if he was 
not there. 

It chanced that Hugh was there, hav- 
ing just come from Mr. Lathrop’s count- 
ing-house, where he had been kept unu- 
sually busy all day. The boy felt tired 
in mind and body, but he knew where 
refreshment awaited him ; and, having 
washed his hands and face in cool fresh 
water, he opened his paint-box and car- 
ried the miniature on which he was en- 
gaged, and the one he was copying, to the 
window, where the last sunset-light fell 
over them. 

While he was intent on these — not 
painting, but merely gazing, for he knew 
the supp*er-bell would ring in a minute — 
a small person came tumbling up-stairs, 
vociferating “ Hugh ! Hugh ! ” at the top 
of his voice, and commenced thundering 
with two fists on the closed door. 

“What is the matter, Bobby?” said 
Hugh, opening it. 

Bobby — aged five — replied by extend- 
ing a note which bore the impress of sev- 
eral dirty fingers. Notes were of unusual 
occurrence with Hugh, since he had no 
relations and few friends in Edgerton ; so 
he received this with a sense of wonder. 
Was it from Amy? No ; the firm, mas- 
culine hand which appeared on the ad- 
dress answered that question at once. 
Opening the envelope, he found within a 
few lines from Archer, requesting him to 
call at that gentleman’s ofifice. “ Come at 
once, if possible,” he wrote; “I have an 
engagement for the evening, and cannot 
see you after eight o’clock.” 

Hugh was all afire with eagerness as 
soon as he read these words. That the 
matter in hand was another commission, 
he did not for a moment doubt. While 
he glanced over the note, a clock down- 
stairs struck seven, and at the same mo- 
ment a bell rang loudly. “ There’s sup- 
per ! ” cried Bobby, pitching away. 

Though Hugh had a healthy appetite, 
supper was at the present moment a mat- 
ter of no importance to him. Afraid that 
he should not find Archer if he delayed 


at all, he seized his hat, forgot for the 
first time to lock up the precious Wal- 
dron miniature, closed his door, and ran 
down-stairs. 

Ten minutes later he entered Archer’s 
office, and found the latter there. 

“You are very prompt, Dinsmore,” 
he said. “I did not expect you so 
soon.” 

“I started the minute I got your 
note,” said Hugh, a little breathless from 
his haste. “ I thought the matter might 
be important, so I did not even wait for 
supper.” 

“You must take supper with me, 
then,” said Archer, smiling ; “I did not 
mean to express such great urgency. The 
matter is important, but not of immediate 
haste. Sit down.” 

Hugh sat down, and, in the moment’s 
silence which ensued, began to suspect 
that there was no commission in the case 
after all. 

Archer was folding up some papers 
with which he had been occupied, and 
he put them away before he turned, and 
said: 

“ I hope you will excuse me if I ask a 
very abrupt and very personal question : 
Do you remember that evening I found 
you senseless in the road beyond Edger- 
ton?” 

Hugh’s surprise at this unexpected 
question could not easily be expressed, 
and was strongly dashed with other feel- 
ings. For an instant he was so thorough- 
ly “ taken aback ” that he could not 
speak ; but when he answered, there was 
no mistaking the vibration of indignant 
pride in his voice, though the gathering 
twilight concealed the fiush that burned 
on his face. 

“lam not likely to forget it,” he said ; 
“but I don’t know any reason why you 
should remind me of a thing that concerns 
nobody but myself.” 

“ Indirectly, it may concern others be- 
sides yourself,” said Archer; “and it is 
because of this that I have sent for you, 
in order to request you to be frank with 


60 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


me. I know that you had some kind of 
an altercation with Marchmont, and that 
he flung you — being much younger and 
slighter than himself — where I found you. 
I Tcnow this ; what I want you to tell me 
is the subject of your quarrel.” 

“You have no right to ask me such a 
question ! ” said Hugh, with growing in- 
dignation. “You would not do so if I 
were a man, and your equal ! I will not 
tell you anything about it! ” 

“Then I must tell 2/ow,” said Archer. 
“The subject of your dispute — or what- 
ever name you choose to give to the afi'air 
— was the daughter of Mr. Reynolds, the 
music-teacher.” 

“ How did you know ? ” asked Hugh. 
Then he caught himself. “ I mean, you 
do not know anything about it,” he said; 
“ and, if this is all you want with me, I 
might as well go.” 

He rose as he spoke ; but Archer rose 
also, and laid a hand on his shoulder. 

“ This is nonsense I ” Archer said. 
“ Y"ou have betrayed yourself, even if I 
had not known exactly how the matter 
stood before. No doubt you are in love 
with the girl, but she is not worth shield- 
ing. I saw her with Marchmont to-day.” 

“You saw her!” said Hugh, with a 
gasp. “ Where ? ” 

“In the woods,” the young lawyer 
answered. “ Marchmont and herself 
were there together, and, when I came 
unexpectedly upon them, she was in his 
arms. I am sorry for you, my poor fel- 
low,” as Hugh started and quivered from 
head to foot ; “ but this is probably only 
folly on her part. What it is on his, I 
won’t pretend to say; but one thing is 
certain : if you want to end it, you had 
better be frank with me.” 

“ But why do you want to know any- 
thing? How does it concern you? ” said 
Hugh, writhing like one in pain. 

“ I want to know,” said Archer, “ be- 
cause I don’t choose that a man like this 
shall marry such a woman as Miss Wal- 
dron. I am thinking of her. Amy Rey- 
nolds is nothing to me. You owe Miss 


Waldron something for her kindness to 
you ; you owe Marchmont something for 
the manner in which he left you lying on 
the highway. Would you not like to pay 
both these debts? ” 

. Hugh looked up, and, even in the 
dusk. Archer was struck by those clear 
eyes of which he had heard Beatrix speak. 

“I would like,” he said, slowly, “to 
j save Amy from sufiering and from slan- 
der ; that is all.” 

I “ To accomplish that,” said Archer, 

I “ you must send Marchmont from Edger- 
j ton. As far as I know, but one thing 
keeps him here — his suit with Miss Wal- 
I dron ; and I am sure that when she is 
I aware that, while addressing her, he has 
j been carrying on a love-atfair with a girl 
j whom he can have no idea of marrying, 

I she will dismiss him at once.” 
j “Do you think so?” asked Hugh, 

I doubtfully. “ I — of courre, I know noth- 
I ing about such things, but I have heard 
people say that a woman hardly ever cares 
: what a man has done to another woman.” 
j “ I don’t believe it,” said Archer, “ of 
! women in general, but I know it is not 
true of Miss Waldron. Such treachery as 
I this would turn her to steel,” he said, 

^ thinking of the flash he had seen in the 
I dark eyes so short a time before. “ But 
you have not told me yet when this — 
flirtation, shall I say? — began. Let me 
! hear all about it.” 

I Some men have a faculty for inspiring 
! confldence, and Archer was one of these. 

Nobody ever felt a doubt of his entire 
I trustworthiness, and Hugh found it al- 
1 most a relief to tell all that he knew of 
Marchmont’s acquaintance with Amy. 
Archer grasped the story without diffi- 
culty. An idle man of the world, lover 
of pleasure and admirer of beauty, a fool- 
ish, flattered girl hardly emerged from 
childhood — what an old combination was 
here ! Were there any materials to work 
a new result ? he wondered. 

“ Unless I am greatly mistaken, that 
girl is not a mere pretty doll,” he thought, 
recalling Amy’s face as he had seen it 


“WOULD YOU LIKE TO PAY YOUR DEBT?” 


61 


once or twice. “She may turn amuse- 
ment into something else before the mat- 
ter is ended.” 

This, however, was the merest thought 
in passing. Amy might be everything to 
Hugh, but she was nothing to him. The 
only person to be considered, from his 
point of view, was Beatrix Waldron. He 
had not the faintest hope of marrying her 
himself — in fact, such an idea did not en- 
ter his mind at all — but he was stern- 
ly determined to do all that lay in his 
power to save her from the fate of mar- 
rying Brian Marchmont. 

After Hugh’s story had been told, he 
reflected for a while, then said that he 
would consider how the substance could 
best be given to Miss Waldron. For ob- 
vious reasons he felt that it would be im- 
possible for him to tell it. 

“ If all other expedients fail, do you 
think that you would have courage to go 
to her, Dinsmore ? ” he asked. 

“I think I could — for Amy’s sake,” 
answered Hugh. 

Archer shook his head. 

“My poor fellow,” he said, “you 
think entirely too much of Amy. When 
a man regards a woman in that way, do 
you know how she treats him ? ” 

“ I think I do,” replied Hugh, rue- 
fully. 

“Generally speaking, she makes a 
football of him,” said Archer. “But it 
is growing late, and I must not forget that 
you have had no supper. Come and take 
it with me at my hotel.” 

This Hugh declined doing. 

“ I can get something from Mrs. Sar- 
gent,” he said; “she is very kind. I am 
much obliged, but I had rather not trouble 
you, Mr. Archer.” 

“ Trouble ! ” said Archer. “ I am not 
a housekeeper.” 

But Hugh still declined the invitation, 
and went away to his own lodging-house. 
In truth, supper was a matter of small 
consideration to him, compared to the 
pleasure of returning to his painting. 
Nevertheless, he was not sorry to And 


that Mrs. Sargent had put aside some 
bread and butter and cofiee for him. 

“ What possessed you to run away 
just when supper was ready?” she said, 
while he sat down to these. “ Bobby said 
you got a note ; it surely must have been 
from your sweetheart.” 

“ No, it wasn’t,” said Hugh, with as 
much of a sigh as was compatible with 
eating bread and butter. “ It was from 
a gentleman — on business.” 

“ Well,” said the friendly woman, “I 
hope the business is of a kind to bring 
some money in your pocket, for I declare 
it goes to my heart to see how shabby 
your clothes are. Mr. Lathrop might pay 
you better for slaving day after day, I 
think.” 

“He pays me well enough,” said 
Hugh ; “ and you know I told you, Mrs. 
Sargent, that the reason I dress so shab- 
bily is, that I am saving all my money 
to go away some day and learn how to 
paint.” 

“ A flne sight of money you will make 
at that ! ” said Mrs, Sargent, scornfully. 
“ Why can’t people be satisfled when they 
are well off, I say? There’s Felix Rey- 
nolds, who I hear is going away to learn 
music — as if he couldn’t see from his 
father’s example what is to be made at 
that ! If Mr. Reynolds would put the boy 
to some trade, he’d be doing a better part 
by him. He was here a while ago — Fe- 
lix, I mean — and said he was sorry not 
to find you.” 

“Did he want anything in particu- 
lar?” 

“ Not that I know of. I heard some- 
body go up-stairs to your room, and I 
thought perhaps it was you, till present- 
ly he came down again and put his head 
in the door to ask where you was. He 
looked white and excited-like. Somehow 
I don’t think that boy’s going to live 
long.” 

“Oh, he has an excitable tempera- 
ment,” said Hugh. “ That don’t kill peo- 
ple. — Well, Mrs. Sargent, I am very much 
obliged to you for the supper, which I 


62 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


have enjoyed greatly, and now I’ll go up- 
stairs.” 

“ And sit up all night at your paint- 
ing,” said Mrs. Sargent, shaking her head 
in warning reproof. 

Hugh smiled and went away, hound- 
ing up-stairs three steps at a time. He 
was never so happy as when his colors 
were before him and his brush in his 
hand. His facility in executing the com- 
mission which Miss Waldron had given 
astonished himself. Inspiration seemed 
to come to his aid where technical knowl- 
edge was lacking, and, although he had 
worked under every possible disadvan- 
tage, the result justified his most sanguine 
belief in his own powers. 

When he reached his room he found 
the door slightly ajar. This did not sur- 
prise him, for he knew that he had not 
locked it on going out, and that Felix had 
been to the room since then. He entered, 
struck a match, and lighted the argand- 
lamp, which, with its steady, powerful 
burner, he had found absolutely indis- 
pensable for his work, and which was 
one of the most precious and expensive 
of his few possessions. Having placed 
the lamp in position and arranged his 
things ready for painting, he turned to 
the casket of the miniature. To his sur- 
prise, it was open and empty. For a 
second, dismay seemed to grasp him like 
the hand of a strong man, when he re- 
membered that he had taken the picture 
out just before Archer’s note was brought 
to him. W’^ith an ejaculation on his care- 
lessness, he turned to the window where 
he had been standing. There, on the 
ledge, lay the fold of white paper which 
contained his half-finished miniature, but 
that which had been intrusted to him was 
gone! 


CHAPTER XII. 

“an absolute stroke of luck.” 

Having slowly wandered home with 
Amy through the exquisite May twilight 
— twilight which seemed especially made 
for lovers and mocking - birds, and in 
which other classes of the world’s popu- 
lation merely existed on suflferance, and 
were wholly out of place — Marchmont 
felt averse to taking leave when Mr. Rey- 
nolds’s door was reached. Amy looked 
bewitchingly pretty in the soft gloaming; 
it was “ the hour when lovers’ vows sound 
sweet in every whispered word ; ” and, 
altogether, he was strongly inclined to de- 
fer his return from Bohemianism to re- 
spectability. If Amy had said “Come 
in to tea,” he would have gone in ; but 
Amy had no mind to say anything of the 
kind. Mr. Reynolds would not only have 
been reasonably astonished at such a step, 
and would certainly have demanded an 
explanation ; but Amy shuddered when 
she thought of Marchmont being intro- 
duced to the family dining-room, where 
hideous serviceable delf alone crowned 
the family table. There are some rare 
people whose breeding is of such an ex- 
quisite quality, that they would make no 
sign of recognizing the difference between 
the table of a laborer and that of a mill- 
ionaire; but she felt instinctively that 
Marchmont did not belong to this class. 
Cut-glass and silver, damask and Sevres, 
were the necessities of life to him ; and 
nothing revolted his fastidiousness so 
thoroughly as coarseness and ugliness in 
any degree. 

Amy knew this as much through sym- 
pathy as anything else, for they revolted 
her to the centre of her soul, and had 
always done so. Parting was very un- 
pleasant, but she clearly recognized the 
necessity for it, and held out her hand 
with an unmistakable gesture of farewell 
when they paused on the door-step. 

“And must I go?” said Marchmont. 


AN ABSOLUTE STROKE OF LUCK.’ 


63 


^‘Tliat is very hard. I don’t feel like 
going at all. I prefer sitting down here, 
and defying Mrs. Grundy to say and do 
her worst.” 

“What would Mrs. Grundy’s worst 
be to you?” demanded Amy. “Not 
that I should care for anything she could 
say of me,” she added, with a slight, de- 
fiant toss of her head ; “ but there’s papa 
to he considered. He has told me not 
to stand here and talk to gentlemen, so 
I must go.” 

“You have stood and talked to gen- j 
tlemen before, then?” said Marchmont, ! 
a little suspiciously. It is in the nature 
of man to be jealous, and certainly no 
more winsome face than Amy’s at this ^ 
moment ever served as an excuse for 
jealousy. 

She caught the intonation, and laughed 
— a peal of mirth that rang out sweetly 
on the soft air. “ Do you think you are 
the only gentleman I ever talked to ? ” 
she asked, saucily. “ That’s not likely — 
is it?” 

“ I think you have about as much 
diablerie in you as any of your sex whom 
1 have ever known — and that is saying a 
great deal,” replied Marchmont. “But 
let us hear the names of the gentlemen. 
Come! confession is good for the soul, 
you know.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Amy, delighted 
at the attraction which was detaining 
him, yet anxious for him to go, since Mr. 
Reynolds, or Clara, might appear at any 
moment; “I think it is very foolish of 
people to give evidence against them- 
selves. But I have nothing to confess,” 
she added, with a sigh. “No doubt I 
should be a great flirt, if I had a chance ; 
but nobody has ever given me a chance.” 

“I will!” said Marchmont. “You 
can practise on me ! I offer myself he- 
roically on the shrine of your future 
greatness, and some day, when you are 
breaking hearts by the score in the most 
scientific manner, you will give me a 
place in your memory as the first trophy 
of your skill.” ^ 


The words of laughing jest were light 
enough, but the dark, daring eyes — irre- 
sistible eyes, a hundred young ladies had 
called them — were full of earnestness as 
they gazed at that rose-bud face. Under 
that gaze Amy’s lashes sank, and the col- 
or wavered in her fair cheeks. 

A place in her memory ! There could 
be little doubt of that. Whether for good 
or evil, friend or foe, Brian Marchmont 
could not fail to command recollection at 
least. 

“I wish — ” she said, suddenly, and 
then paused. 

“Well,” said her companion, after 
waiting an instant and finding she did 
not go on, “what do you wish? That 
you were prima-donna assoluta^ with all 
Paris at your feet ? ” 

“No; I was not thinking of that,” 
she answered, glancing at him with some- 
thing of a child’s wistfulness; “I was 
about to say that I wish I knew what 
you and I will be to each other — in life.” 

“ Oh! ” said Marchmont, slightly dis- 
comfited. He lifted his hand and pulled 
the end of his silky mustache before 
answering. Then he said, carelessly : 
“Such thoughts are” unpleasant, my dear, 
and not worth troubling one’s head over. 
We know nothing — absolutely nothing — 
about to-morrow ; but we have to-day in 
our grasp, and we are fools if we do not 
take all that it offers us of pleasure. 
There’s no better philosophy in life tlian 
that of gathering roses while we may ; and 
you and I hare gathered some this after- 
noon — have we not, my pretty Amy ? ” 

The tone in which he uttered her 
name was equivalent to a caress, but Amy 
did not answer. Looking up at that mo- 
ment, she saw one of the greatest gossips 
in the neighborhood — a stout woman, 
with the waddling gait that stout women 
often have — bearing along the sidewalk 
toward her. 

“ Dear me ! ” she said, under her 
breath, “yonder comes Mrs. Simpson, 
and she will stop and talk, and — and — 
oh, I must go ! Good-by ! ” 


64 


AFTER MAJfY DAYS. 


She darted into the house so rapidly 
that Marchmont had not time for a word. 
In fact, he was so completely taken by 
surprise that he could only gaze blankly 
at the door for a minute, while Mrs. Simp- 
son — who knew perfectly who he was — 
indulged in a prolonged. stare at his pro- 
file. Rousing suddenly to a consciousness 
of this, he flung one haughty glance at 
her, then sprang up the step or two which 
intervened between himself and the door, 
and vanished in turn. 

“If I ever saw the like! ” said Mrs. 
Simpson to herself, as she waddled along. 
“ He seems as much at home in the house 
as if he lived there. If that girl don’t 
come to harm yet, /’m mistaken 1 ” 

Careless of any comments to which 
his conduct could give rise, Marchmont 
paused in the dusky passage and looked 
round, but there was no sign of Amy. 
No doubt she had ascended the staircase 
which wound upward before him. He 
would not call, for fear of rousing some 
one else to respond; so he entered the 
parlor, determined to wait and intercept 
her when she descended. 

“I only want to say one word,” he 
muttered to himself, in Justification of 
this step. “ I must tell her that I shall 
not be able to see her to-morrow.” 

The twilight, w^hich by this time 
reigned over the outer world, was, of 
course, much deeper within a room which 
was generally in shadow at noon-day. 

After stumbling against two or three 
pieces of furniture, Marchmont found a 
chair, in which he sat dowm. Just behind 
him, in a recess, was a sofa, but he was not 
aware of its proximity, else he might have 
essayed to make himself comfortable on 
that. 

He had not been sitting here more 
than two minutes — though they seemed 
twenty — when hasty footsteps entered 
the house from the street. The next in- 
stant Oliver rushed into the dark par- 
lor. 

“Amy!” he cried, quickly — “Amy! 
are you here?” 


“She is not here,” said Marchmont, 
who did not fancy the prospect of inter- 
ruption. “ Is anybody dead, or dying, my 
good fellow, that you make such an up- 
roar ? ” 

“ No, there’s nobody dead, or dying,” 
replied Oliver, in a tone of surprise* 
“You are Mr. Marchmont, aren’t you?” 
he added, drawing nearer. “ Are you 
here all by yourself ? Where’s Amy ? ” 

“I can give no information on that 
point. She disappeared a minute ago, 
and I don’t know where she has gone.” 

“I’ve got something to tell her, and 
something to show her ! ” said Oliver, in 
a tone of triumphant excitement. “ It’s 
the best Joke on her, and on Hugh Dins- 
more, that ever was! You know,” he 
went on, “Hugh’s been awful spooney 
about Amy for a long time, and Amy don’t 
believe he ever thought of any other girl 
but her. Well, some of us boys are going 
to have theatricals round in Tom White’s 
barn to-night, and I went to Hugh’s room 
a little while ago to get him to paint me 
for an Indian, but he wasn’t there. Then 
I thought I could paint myself, if I had 
the stuff, so I commenced rummaging 
among his things, when I found a picture 
of such a pretty girl, that I made up my 
mind in a minute I’d bring it and show it 
to Amy, and let her give it back to Hugh. 
Won’t she be astonished? — and won’t he 
be astonished ? Ha ! ha ! ” 

“ A very good Joke indeed ! ” said 
Marchmont. “ Let me see the picture.” 

“ It’s a stunner ! ” said Oliver. “ But 
you can’t see it here — come to the win- 
dow.” 

Marchmont advanced to the window, 
where the lingering May twilight enabled 
him to see at once that the picture in 
question was, as he had suspected, the 
Waldron miniature. 

The light was too dim to distinguish 
the painting, but the pearl setting and 
rich gold chain were suflicient to identify 
it. 

He was silent for a moment, and in 
that moment his resolution was taken. If 


AN ABSOLUTE STROKE OF LUCK.' 


65 


he could obtain possession of the picture, 
and induce the boy to hold his tongue, he 
might — after having retained it for a day 
or two in order to give Hugh as much 
trouble as he deserved — by returning 
to Miss Waldron, vindicate his own opin- 
ion, and prove not only Hugh’s untrust- 
worthiness, but Archer’s also, since Arch- 
er had recommended and indorsed the 
young artist. 

The idea was tempting. The question 
was, how could he obtain possession of 
the picture in the first instance, and se- 
cure Oliver’s silence in the second? 

While he was considering whether or 
not to offer a bribe, Oliver spoke : 

“You can’t see it well,” he said, re- 
gretfully. “ It’s awfully pretty ! I’d go 
and bring a candle, only I’m expecting 
Tom White every minute. I wish Amy 
would come ! ” , 

“If she don’t come in time, you can 
leave it with me, and I will give it to 
her,” said Marchmont. 

“ She’s up-stairs, I suspect ; I’ll take 
it up there,” said Oliver, who had no 
mind to lose the pleasure of his joke. 
“You see, I’m going home with Tom 
White to-night, for all his people are 
away, and to-morrow we’re going fish- 
ing, so I sha’n’t see Amy again till to- 
morrow evening. Hullo! here’s Tom 
now.” 

A bullet-head appeared framed in the 
open window, as he spoke, and a boy’s 
voice said : 

“ Is that you, Oliver ? Come along ! 
The fellows will be round by eight, sharp, 
and we are not Tiear ready 1 ” 

“ You had better give me the picture,” 
said Marchmont, in a low voice. 

Oliver hesitated an instant; then, 
“ Be sure and tell Amy that it’s the like- 
ness of Hugh’s sweetheart,” he said, and 
darted eagerly away. 

It was not Marchmont’s habit to in- 
dulge in soliloquy, but, after standing for 
a minute motionless where Oliver left him, 
he uttered a subdued laugh, and spoke 
aloud : “ Hugh’s sweetheart I Rather 


better than that, my friend,” he said. 
“By Jove! this is an absolute stroke of 
luck I ” 

At that moment a step sounded on the 
staircase, and he plunged the miniature 
hastily into one of the outside pockets of 
his coat. 

It was not Amy who was descending, 
however — unless Amy knew how to 
swear. 

“What the deuce is the reason that 
there is no light anywhere ? ” demanded 
an irritable voice. “ Clara, is there to be 
no supper to-night? ” 

“ Ready now, sir! ” responded a voice 
from the farther extremity of the house, 
followed by an immediate clatter of 
dishes. 

With a sigh, Marchmont resigned him- 
self to the prospect of not seeing Amy 
again. He was so far gone in what he 
did not hesitate to term “idiocy,” that 
he felt this to be a deprivation not easily 
borne. There was no alternative, how- 
ever. Mr. Reynolds had gone into the 
dining-rpom ; in another minute he might 
emerge with a lamp, and retreat be 
cut off. 

Marchmont returned hastily to the 
place where he had been sitting when Oli- 
ver entered, felt about in the dark for his 
hat — by no means an easy task, for he 
came in contact with various objects, 
which caused him to utter some forci- 
ble ejaculations — placed that article on 
his head as soon as discovered, and took 
his departure. 

“You must have found fishing more 
than usually entertaining this afternoon, 
Brian,” said Edward Lathrop, with a 
laugh, as they sat at dinner half an hour 
later — the Lathrops and Waldrons had 
introduced the fashion of late dining at 
Edgerton. “Pray, was your luck any 
better ? When are we to have the pleas- 
ure of eating some fish of your catch- 
ing ? ” 

“ I think I have remarked before,” re- 
plied Marchmont, with unruffled calm- 


66 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


ness, “ that catching fish is the least agree- 
able feature of fishing.” 

“ It is very fortunate that you think 
so,” remarked Mr. Lathrop, senior, “ since 
the fishes are plainly in no danger from 
you, my dear boy. If your fishing is con- 
ducted in the neighborhood of Cedar- 
wood, that might, perhaps, account for 
the fact. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 

“ Oh, no, indeed, papa ; you are very 
much mistaken,” said Miss Florence. 
“ At least, if Cedarwood is a distraction, 
it is a very unconscious one. Beatrix 
was here this afternoon, and she ex- 
pressed a great deal of surprise at Brian’s 
fancy ; she had never imagined him 
addicted to pastoral amusements, she 
said.” 

“ I suppose it would be useless to ex- 
pect a woman to understand the pleas- 
ure of sport in any form,” said Edward 
Lathrop. — “I don’t at all object to fish- 
ing myself, and I think I’ll go with you 
to-morrow, Brian, and see if the fish 
about here have forgotten how to bite.” 

“You can’t go to-morrow,” said Miss 
Anna Lathrop, “for we are all going to 
Cedarwood to a croquet-party.” 

“ Is it to-morrow that you are due at 
Cedarwood? ” said Mrs. Lathrop, ook- 
ing up — in explanation of which it may 
he added that a croquet-club existed in 
Edgerton, which met weekly at the house 
of some one of the members. 

“ Yes, to-morrow,” said Florence. “ I 
am always glad when the turn of Cedar- 
wood comes; everything is so pleasant 
there. It will be delightful to feel, some 
day, that one has a cousinly right in such 
a charming place,” she added, with a 
laugh, and a mischievous glance at Brian. 

“It is never wise to count chickens 
before they are hatched,” said Mr. La- 
throp, with a smile which seemed to imply 
that he thought there was little danger of 
the chickens in question not being satis- 
factorily hatched. 

“It is not in good taste to make such 
remarks, Florence,” said Mrs. Lathrop, 
with a very unusual sharpness of tone. 


There was a little stir of surprise 
among the company. The girls looked at 
their mother, and then at their cousin; 
but the countenance of the latter was im- 
perturbable. 

“ Cedarwood is certainly a charming 
place,” he said. “I shaU not much mind 
sacrificing myself to croquet — though 
generally I consider it the greatest bore 
of modern social life — if the sacrifice is to 
take place there.” 

Notwithstanding this nonchalance, he 
had a very decided foreboding of what 
was to come; and he was not in the 
least surprised when, after dinner, his 
aunt summoned him into the back draw- 
ing-room, where she sat alone, in a large 
chair near the open window, through 
which the air of the soft May night came 
laden with delicious sweetness. 

The front drawing-room was brilliant- 
ly lighted, but this room was left in par- 
tial obscurity, and, when Marchmont en- 
tered, he could only perceive the outlines 
of Mrs. Lathrop’s figure and the fan she 
was slowly waving back and forth. 

“You will find a chair here just in 
front of me, Brian,” she said. “Sit 
down ; I have something to say to 
you.” 

“ I am all attention,” answered Brian, 
quietly, as he sat down. 

He knew as well what Mrs. Lathrop 
meant to say as she knew herself, and he 
awaited the disclosure with a certain 
sense of amusement, in which irritation 
mingled but did not predominate. 

Mrs. Lathrop on her part was glad of 
the semi-darkness, for she felt a sense of 
awkwardness altogether new to her. She, 
who managed all the social affairs of 
Edgerton, who never hesitated to advise 
the irresolute and admonish those who 
strayed from the path of right-doing, was 
oddly conscious of having on hand at the 
present moment a culprit beyond the pale 
of her authority — one who would prob- 
ably neglect her advice and scorn her ad- 
monitions. 

She hardly acknowledged this con- 


“AN ABSOLUTE STROKE OF LUCK.” 


67 


scioiisness to herself, and she certainly 
did not mean to betray any sign of it in 
her manner, but instinctively she mounted 
a rather higher horse than usual, when 
she began : 

1 regret to interfere in what you 
may probably consider no affair of mine, 
Brian,” she said, in a very stately man- 
ner; “but since you are staying in my 
house — and I have always regarded you 
very much as I do my own sons — I feel it ^ 
my duty to warn you, when I have | 
learned that you are committing a very 
grave imprudence.” | 

Marchmont smiled to himself at this 
address — a scornful, impatient smile, 
which the darkness fortunately con- 
cealed. 

“ Confound the woman ! why can’t 
she speak out plainly? ” he thought ; then, 
with the utmost coolness, he said : 

“You are very kind, I am sure; but 
may I ask. Of what imprudence have I 
been guilty ? ” 

“It is hardly possible that you do 
not know to what I allude,” said Mrs. 
Lathrop, with an accession of dignity, i 
“To-day I went to see Mrs. Ripley, an 
invalid who boards at Mrs. Crenshaw’s, 
and there, to my utter amazement, I 
heard for the first time of your intimate i 
acquaintance with that badly-reared girl, ; 
the daughter of Eunice’s music-teach- 
er.” 

“Poor little Amy! ” said Marchmont, 
with a cadence of amusement which even 
caught Mrs. Lathrop’s ear. “ Is it possi- 
ble. Aunt Caroline, that you regard my ; 
acquaintance with her in the light of a ! 
grave imprudence ? ” 

Mrs. Lathrop felt that this was of- 
fensive levity, and she grew colder and 
stiffer in consequence. 

“I certainly regard it in that light, 
when I consider the character of the girl, 
and your object here,” she said. “You 
cannot blind me by any such tone as that, 
Brian. I have not reached my age with- 
out acquiring some knowledge of the 
world. If you came here to marry Be- 


atrix Waldron, and if you want to marry 
her, yo’u had better not spend hours every 
day in the society of a girl who, young 
as she is, has already acquired a reputa- 
tion for being what is called ‘fast.’ ” 

“ My acquaintance with her was en- 
tirely accidental,” said Brian, who felt 
that he must enter a plea of defense. “ I 
have gone to her father’s house simply to 
hear her sing, for she has a most wonder- 
ful voice. She seemed to me a mere 
child — not older, I should think, than 
Eunice.” 

“If she is a mere child, she neither 
looks nor acts like one,” said Mrs. La- 
throp. “I don’t think that alters the 
matter at aU ; and I warn you that peo- 
ple are talking of it, and that, if such 
reports come to Beatrix Waldron’s ears, 
your chances with her will be ruined.” 

“ I must differ with you on that point,” 
said Marchmont, calmly. “Miss Wal- 
dron has not only heard me speak of my 
visits to Mr. Reynolds’s house, but it was 
by my advice that she asked Amy to sing 
at her fete^ 

Mrs. Lathrop was so much surprised 
at this, that for a moment she was silent. 
It did not take her long, however, to rally 
her forces. 

“That may be possible,” she said, 
“ and yet Beatrix may not know the ex- 
tent of your intimacy, or the gossip that 
has risen with regard to it. No doubt 
you feel that it is altogether your own 
affair ” — this was so true, that Marchmont 
did not contradict her— “but, although 
I have no good opinion of the girl, I shall 
make it my affair sufficiently to warn her 
father that he had better look more care- 
fully after her, if he does not wish her to 
suffer seriously in her reputation.” 

“ Aunt Caroline,” said Marchmont, 
starting with an energy which contrast- 
ed very strongly with his previous in- 
difference, “you surely will do no such 
thing 1 ” 

“ I certainly shall do it, for the sake 
of Mr. Reynolds, whom I have known as 
an honest, hard-working man,” answered 


68 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


Mrs. Lathrop, majestically. Then she 
rose. “ This has been an unpleasant 
duty, Brian, but I have discharged it as 
a duty,” she said. “ My conscience being 
clear, I shall not trouble you with the 
subject again. Though I do not think 
Beatrix and yourself calculated to make 
each other happy, I will not interfere in 
any manner with your suit ; but if this 
matter is told to her, as it has been told 
to me, she is far too proud a woman to 
forgive it.” 

The clear tones ceased, the speaker 
swept away with a rustle of silk, and 
Marchmont found himself alone, with 
feelings more uncomfortable than he had 
at all anticipated. 

It would be difficult to say whether, 
for a time, anger, disgust, or contempt j 
possessed him most strongly. In these | 
sentiments his aunt, himself, Beatrix, ev- j 
erybody except Amy, shared. It seemed j 
incredible that he should be the subject j 
of petty village gossip — should be lectured ! 
like a schoolboy, and hampered in the 
pursuit of any amusement that offered 
itself to him. “I have half a mind to 
turn my back on the whole affair ! ” he 
thought, with wrathful scorn. Naturally, 
however, other counsels prevailed. “It 
is fate!” he thought, with that, conven- 
ient optimism which comes so easily to 
men. “ I must stay until the last act is 
played. How lovely she is 1 ” He was 
thinking of Amy’s face as she lifted it 
that afternoon, when he wrung from her 
a confession of her love. “ Many men in 
my place would play the villain ; indeed, 
a few would fling all thoughts of the world 
to the winds! I shall simply linger a 
little longer, and then go, leaving only a 
girl’s bruised fancy behind. Such things 
are often good for women who have a 
public career before them. She will be 
all the more invincible for being a little 
hardened.” 

It was natural, no doubt, that of the 
cost of this hardening Mr. Marchmont 
did not pause to think — epicurean phi- 
losophers in his position rarely do ; but. 


as he leaned back in his chair, deaf to 
the strains of the piano, or the gay voices 
and laughter which issued from the next 
room, one hand unconsciously sought his 
coat-pocket, and the gesture reminded 
him of the miniature which had so 
strangely come into his possession a short 
time before. 

It was not in his pocket, since he had 
hastily changed his dress on returning to 
the house in time for dinner, and he now 
remembered that he had left the coat 
which he took off lying across a chair, 
with the miniature still in its pocket. 
“ How careless ! ” he thought, as he rose 
at once and went to his chamber — not 
because he feared that anything would 
befall the picture, or that any one could 
possibly chance to see it, but because he 
wished to examine it before putting it 
away. 

The coat was lying exactly where he 
had thrown it, and, taking it up, he ran 
his hand into the pocket where the min- 
iature had been placed. It encountered 
only a handkerchief ! He hurriedly drew 
this out, and felt again; there was noth- 
ing ! He turned the pocket inside out ; 
still nothing ! Then he plunged his hand 
in succession into all the pockets, examin- 
ing each one carefully. The result with 
each was identical — the miniature was 
not to be found. 

When he fully realized this, he stood 
gazing blankly at the coat, which he held 
by the collar ; then he went over all the 
pockets again, and felt the lining care- 
fully around each one ; then he shook the 
garment violently, and, all measures fail- 
ing to produce the missing picture, flung 
it aside and began examining the carpet 
under and around the chair over which 
it had been thrown. From this place his 
search extended throughout the room ; 
but, after all probable and improbable 
places bad been searched, he was obliged 
to face the same fact which had brought 
dismay to Hugh Dinsm ore’s breast a few 
hours before. 

The miniature was gone ! 


WHERE IS THE MINIATURE?” 


69 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“WHEEE IS THE MINIATURE?” 

The Reynolds family, with the excep- 
tion of Oliver — whose absence was hard- 
ly observed and not at all remarked — 
were assembled at supper, when Hugh 
Dinsmore suddenly burst in upon them, 
his face white, his eyes startled, his lips 
apart. 

“ Mercy, Hugh ! what is the matter ? ” 
cried Amy, who saw him first ; but, for 
once, Hugh paid no attention to her 
presence or her words. He did not even 
seem to hear her ; his eyes sought only 
one face, and, when they found that, he 
cried, breathlessly: 

“ Felix, for Heaven’s sake, give me that 
picture ! This is a poor jest ! ” 

“Give you what?” asked Felix, 
amazed. “ I have nothing of yours.” 

“You have!” cried Hugh. “You 
must have, Felix ! ” There was absolute 
agony in his tone. “ This is no time for 
trifling. I ran every step of the way here 
as soon as I discovered the picture was 
gone, and I said to myself, at every step, 

‘ Felix has taken it for a jest.’ But it is 
a cruel jest ! Give it to me.” 

“ I don’t know what you are talking 
about,” said Felix, bewildered. “ I have 
not any picture of yours! I went to 
your room a little while ago, but you were 
not there, so I did not stop a minute ; I 
ran down-stairs and asked Mrs. Sargent 
about you, and, when she said she didn’t 
know when you would be back, I came 
away. How could you think I would 
touch your things — much less carry any- 
thing off ? ” 

Hugh’s face seemed to sharpen mo- 
mently in anxiety. He clutched the back 
of a chair, and looked at the boy with a 
gaze of passionate entreaty. 

“ Mrs. Sargent declares that you are 
the only person who went to my room 
during my absence,” he said. “ The pict- 
ure that I left by the window is gone. 


Who else could have taken it? Felix, I 
can never believe that you meant harm 
if you will only give it back — give it 
now ! ” 

“ What is the meaning of this ? ” asked 
Mr. Reynolds, whom astonishment had 
kept quiet. “ What is he talking about, 
Felix?” 

“ It seems he suspects me of having 
taken some picture out of his room,” an- 
swered Felix. “ I don’t know any more 
than that. I didn’t enter his room ; I 
only looked in, and I touched noth- 
ing.” 

Mr. Reynolds turned to Hugh, with 
the blood mounting in a dark tide to his 
face. 

“You hear that! ” he said, haughtily. 
“My son’s denial is sufficient — though 
how you could have ventured to suspect 
him, I do not understand.” 

“How could I help it?” said Hugh, 
hoarsely. “ The picture is gone — the 
picture that was trusted to me — and that 
means everything for me. NT o one went to 
my room during my absence but Felix — ” 

“ And you dare to think that Felix 
took your picture ! ” cried Amy, with 
eyes all ablaze. “Hasn’t he told you 
that he did not touch it ? I never heard 
anything more infamous! You will say 
next that he stole it ! ” 

“ Hush, Amy ! ” said Felix. He alone 
understood the terrible blankness that 
came over Hugh’s face, and, rising from 
his seat, he walked round the table and 
touched the elder boy’s hand. “I did 
not take it,” he said, gently. “ On my 
honor, I touched nothing in your room. 
If you have lost anything valuable, let us 
go and look for it.” 

“ Look for it ! I ha'oe looked ! ” cried 
poor Hugh. “ It is gone — utterly gone ! 
If you have not got it, Felix, I am ruined ! ” 

The despair of the last words touched 
even Amy. 

“ What was it, Hugh ? Surely not 
Miss Waldron’s miniature? ” she said. 

“Yes; Miss Waldron’s miniature!” 
answered Hugh. 


70 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


Then he told his woful story — how he 
had been called away from his room ; how 
for the first time he had neglected to lock 
up the miniature, and how it had disap- 
peared. 

“ God only knows what I am to do ! ” 
he said, twining and untwining his thin, 
nervous fingers. “ I do not know where 
to turn — what to do ! There was no one 
in my room but Felix — ” 

Mr. Reynolds pushed back his chair 
and rose from the table. 

“You harp on that,” he said, sternly, 

“ as if you doubted Felix’s assurance that 
he did not touch the picture. I am sorry 
for your misfortune, but you have plain- 
ly only your own carelessness to blame. 
The sooner you realize this, the better. — 
Felix, come with me ; I am going to Herr 
Meerbach’s.” 

He walked out of the room, but Felix 
paused to throw his arms around Hugh’s 
neck. 

“ I am not vexed,” he whispered. “ I 
know you don’t mean anything. I wish 
I had taken the picture; then I could 
give it back to you. I am so sorry — so 
sorry ! ” 

“ I am satisfied with your word that 
you did not take it,” said Hugh, huskily. 

“ I never thought you had done so — ex- 
cept as a jest.” 

“ Was it your picture, Hugh ? ” asked 
Ernest, curiously, unable to understand i 
such excessive concern with regard to 
the property of any one else. 

“ Eat you supper, and don’t ask ques- 
tions about what don’t concern you ! ” 
said Amy, sharply. — “ Come into the 
parlor with me, Hugh.” 

Hugh followed her, and they entered 
the room where, a short time before, the 
miniature, which was causing him so 
much wretchedness, had changed hands. 

By the very window where Oliver and 
Marchmont had stood Amy sat down, 
while Hugh paced back and forth like 
an unquiet spirit. 

“ What is the good of taking the thing 
so desperately to heart, Hugh ? ” she said, i 


watching him. “ I don’t believe anybody 
has stolen the picture. What would any- 
body want with it? It is valuable to the 
Waldrons, no doubt; but nobody else 
would consider it so.” 

“You are mistaken,” said Hugh. “ It 
is not only valuable as a work of art, but 
it is set in very fine pearls. — I feel as if I 
were wasting time in staying here! ” he 
cried out, suddenly; “but what can I 
do ? — where can I go ? ” 

Amy could give him no advice on this 
point. She offered vague consolation in 
the form of a remark that she had no 
doubt the miniature would “turn up;” 
but beyond that she was not able to vent- 
ure. 

“I have no hope of such a thing,” 
said Hugh. “It is not lost — it has been 
taken. Who would take it and return 
it? My only hope was that Felix had 
done so. But, whoever has taken it, 
the responsibility and the suspicion fall 
on me.” 

“ I am sorry,” said Amy. 

The words were so gentle, that, in the 
midst of all his trouble, Hugh’s heart gave 
a throb. Despite his wretchedness, he 
could not feel that everything was lost 
when Amy was sorry. 

“ It seemed as if life was beginning 
for me — the kind of life I desire,” he 
said, with something like a sob in his 
voice. “Now it is all over! I must go 
to Mr. Archer and tell him. Oh, what 
will he and Miss Waldron think of me? ” 

“ Why should you go to Mr. Archer ? ” 
asked Amy. “ He is a very disagreeable 
person — isn’t he ? ” 

“ He has never been disagreeable to 
me,” said Hugh ; and then he remem- 
bered that it was Archer’s summons 
which made him leave the miniature, and 
what the cause of that summons was. 

So great had been his distress and 
anxiety that for a time he had entire- 
ly forgotten this. Now it came back to 
him like a dart of pain. He stopped ab- 
ruptly and looked at the girl, who was 
sitting by the open casement in the dim 


“WHERE IS THE MINIATURE?” 


light. Should he tell her ? — would there 
be any good in telling her what he had 
heard ? ” 

“Amy,” he said, after a minute, “ the 
last time that I saw you I made you an- 
gry. I shall be sorry to make you angry 
again, hut I cannot help it. I must warn 
you once more that Marchmont is acting 
toward you like a scoundrel ! ” 

“What do you know of him? What 
do you mean by saying such a thing to 
me?” asked Amy, with quick defiance. 
“One would think you had some right to 
interfere with my affairs ; hut you have 
not the least ! ” 

“ Only the right of loving you a great 
deal better than he does,” said Hugh. “I 
would sooner die than harm you; but 
he is harming you more than you know. 
You are quite young, but have you no 
pride of a woman,” he said, pausing be- 
fore her, “that you let a man make love 
to you, and win your heart, when he has 
no idea of marrying you ? ” 

Something in the grave, half-sorrow- 
ful words thrilled Amy. She was not so 
much a cliild but that she had a little of 
tnat “pride of a woman” of which Hugh 
spoke, and it now brought the blood to 
her cheeks in a tide. 

“You don’t know what you are talk- 
ing about,” she said, haughtily, “ and you 
are meddling in what does not concern 
you. If Mr. Marchmont and I under- 
stand each other, that is enough.” 

“I doubt very much if you under- 
stand Am,” said Hugh. “ He is amusing 
himself with you, my poor Amy; and, 
when he is tired, he will leave you, with- 
out one thought of yonr distress.” 

“I am not afraid of it,” said Amy. 
“ I know that you think me a fool ; but a 
woman — even one so young as I am — can 
tell when a man really loves her.” 

“Then, if he really loves you,” said 
Hugh, “ what part is he playing with an- 
other woman? He certainly is trying to 
marry Miss Waldron.” 

“ I don’t believe it ! ” she flashed out. 
“ I don’t believe anything you tell me of 


71 

him! You have never liked him— you 
were jealous of him from the first.” 

“Yes, I have been jealous of him,” 
the quiet tones replied — tones that she 
could hardly recognize as Hugh’s; “but 
I am not jealous any longer. I have 
heard — Amy, do you know what I have 
heard this evening? ” 

“ How should 1 know ? ” asked Amy ; 
but she shrank a little as she spoke. 

Conscience makes cowards of us all. 
She remembered how often she had met 
Marchmont lately, and she doubted not 
that some rumor of those meetings had 
come to Hugh’s ears. 

As for Hugh, the words which he 
would fain have uttered seemed to choke 
him. He felt that he literally could not 
repeat Archer’s account. Instead of do- 
ing so, he held out his hand, abruptly. 

“Good-by,” he said. “I can do no 
good here. You will not heed me ; you 
do not believe me. If I serve you, it 
must be in another way.” 

“ There is no way in which you can 
serve me,” answered Amy, proudly. 
Then she softened a little. “ Good-by ; 
and oh, I hope you will find the picture 1 ” 
she said. 

“ Would to God I had never seen it! ” 
Hugh answered, in a tone of despair. 

From the Reynolds house he went 
straight to the hotel where Archer lodged, 
and fortunately found the latter, who 
heard of the loss of the miniature with 
great surprise and concern. 

For a moment — only for a moment — 
he looked suspiciously at Hugh ; hut it 
was impossible to doubt the genuine dis- 
tress and anxiety which the boy was en- 
during; and the young lawyer was too 
shrewd a judge of human nature to mis- 
take reality for a counterfeit. 

“I am truly sorry that the loss was 
owing to my summons,” he said; “but 
this gives me an additional reason for 
making every possible eflfort to recover 
the picture. Whom do you suspect of 
the theft ? Are there any dishonest ser- 
vants in your hoarding-house ? ” 


72 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“ There is only one servant,” answered 
Hugh, “ and she was occupied at the time, 
for the family were at supper. Mrs. Sar- 
gent is positive that nobody in the house 
went to my room while I was out.” 

“Nobody in the house! Did some- 
body out of the house go to it, then ? ” 

“ Felix Reynolds went to it,” answered 
Hugh, who knew that Mrs. Sargent would 
tell this if he failed to do so. “1 have 
been to him, but he says that he did not 
touch the picture — that he did not even 
enter the room when he found I was not 
there.” 

“ What he says is of small importance,” 
returned Mr. Archer. “If he was the 
only person who went to your room dur- 
ing your absence, he must have taken the 
picture.” 

“I am sure he did not! ” said Hugh, 
eagerly. “You don’t know Felix — you 
don’t know how little he would be likely 
to do such a thing ! I thought, at first, 
that he might have taken it for a jest, 
but I soon saw he had not. He was 
amazed when I spoke of it.” 

“I don’t think that your opinion is 
greatly to be relied upon with regard to 
any of the Reynolds family,” said Archer, 
dryly. “ Come ! I’ll go to your boarding- 
house at once, and see what sort of a de- 
tective I shall make.” 

To the boarding-house he accordingly 
went, but there was nothing to be elicit- 
ed beyond what Hugh had stated. 

Another search demonstrated afresh 
the fact that the miniature was gone; 
while Mrs. Sargent professed her readi- 
ness to take “her Bible oath” that no 
one had been in Hugh’s room during his 
absence except Felix Reynolds. 

Every member of the household proved 
an alib% and Archer was justified by the 
facts of the case, when he said to Hugh : 

“ I have perfect faith in your honesty, 
but you must understand this : you can- 
not shield young Reynolds without incur- 
ring suspicion yourself. Unless you have 
disposed of the picture, he must have 
taken it ; there is no third alternative.” 


With these words he went away, and 
left poor Hugh steeped in double wretch- 
edness. So his unhappy fate was to in- 
volve Felix as well as himself! 

Although the mystery attending the 
disappearance of the picture grew deep- 
er, he could not believe that Felix had 
taken it. 

On the many miserable thoughts which 
haunted him, on the fears that beset him 
— fears of the disgrace which seemed 
ready to fall on his head — it is not worth 
while to dwell. Mrs. Sargent’s sleep was 
sadly broken during the long hours of the 
night by the steady tread overhead, that 
never ceased until morning broke in the 
east. 

Long, golden sunshine streaming on 
green, close -shorn turf, croquet -hoops 
set, croquet-balls rolling, brightly-dressed 
groups of girls and sombrely - dressed 
groups of young men scattered here and 
there, gay voices sounding, gay laughter 
ringing — such was the scene which the 
lawn of Cedarwood presented at four 
o’clock on the afternoon when the cro- 
quet-club met there. 

For those watching the game or rest- 
ing from it, chairs and rugs were placed 
near ; but the young hostess was neither 
among the players nor spectators. 

When the question was asked, “ Where 
is Miss Waldron?” some one answered, 
with a laugh, “ Sitting under the cedars 
with Mr. Marchmont.” 

Yet this fact by no means implied a 
withdrawal from the scene of gayety, for, 
although croquet was the ostensible ob- 
ject of the gathering, it by no means 
monopolized the attention of the com- 
pany. 

Ladies and their cavaliers strolled back 
and forth across the lawn, passed through 
the portico and hall to the dining-room, 
where a collation was spread, and flitted 
in and out of the wide-open drawing-room 
windows. The appearance of the entire 
scene was festive in the extreme. 

Miss Waldron, who was seated undei 


“WHERE IS THE MINIATURE? 


78 


the large cedars, gazed at it with absent 
thoughts. 

“Yes,” she said, in reply to a remark 
from her companion, “ I am thoroughly 
out of sorts. I have been greatly shocked 
and distressed to-day, and all this jars 
upon my mood. Do you not think ” — 
she put up her fan just here, as if to shade 
her eyes — “ that there is something dread- 
ful, something that one cannot easily re- 
cover from, in finding treachery where 
one expected fidelity ? ” 

“It be dreadful, perhaps,” said 

Marchmont, who knew, or thought he 
knew, to what she alluded, “if one did 
not find it to be the case so often. After 
all, the best rule in life is that of trusting 
nobody. This may sound cynical, but, 
unhappily, cynicism is often only another 
name for worldly wisdom.” 

“ And you think it wise to trust no- 
body?” she said, regarding him keenly. 
“ How about yourself ? Do you not trust 
anybody ? — do you not wish any one to 
trust you? ” 

He started. 

“ I was not speaking of myself,” he 
said ; “ I did not imagine that you would 
suppose so. I thought you were alluding 
to some dishonesty on the part of one 
whom you had trusted.” 

“I do not think I said so,” she re- 
plied, “but you are right. Do you re- 
member the miniature of which I spoke 
to you once or twice, and which I gave 
young Dinsmore to copy ? You warned 
me against the risk of doing so, and it is 
a pity that I did not act on your advice, 
for it is lost.” 

“ Lost ! ” repeated Marchmont. 

He was expecting this, and had pre- 
pared all his well-trained forces of self- 
control, but nevertheless he was conscious 
of changing color, and he could utter 
nothing besides that word. 

“Yes, lost!” said Miss Waldron, af- 
ter a moment’s pause. “ The boy came 
here this morning, in deep distress, to tell 
me that it was taken from his room while 
he was absent for a short time yesterday 


evening. I say talcen^ because that w^as 
his story, but how much of it to believe I 
do not know. He looks- so honest, that I 
am loath to suspect him of having stolen 
it myself, but I cannot close my eyes to 
the suspicious aspect of the affair.” 

“I told you it would be,” said March- 
mont, who had by this time regained his 
composure. “ I felt that it was a great 
risk to intrust anything so valuable to an 
utterly irresponsible person.” 

“ And you think I am right in suspect- 
ing him? I can hardly bear to think so.” 

“ I don’t see how you can avoid doing 
so. It is at least certain that he has been 
guilty of gross carelessness, if not of dis- 
honesty. But the presumption is strong 
with regard to the last.” 

“ I cannot give you any idea of how 
much it worries me,” she said, still keep- 
ing her fan over her eyes. “ I have not 
told papa yet, because I dislike to an- 
noy him. If the mystery could only 
be cleared up, I should be so much re- 
lieved 1 ” 

“What mystery is there?” asked 
Marchmont, with an uneasiness which 
was not outwardly manifest. “ You 
surely don’t apply that term to the sim- 
ple fact that the miniature has been 
lost?” 

“ The fact does not seem to be simple,” 
she answered. “Mr. Archer was here 
this morning, and, like myself, he is at a 
loss what to believe.” 

“I wonder that you attach the least 
importance to Archer’s opinion,” said 
Marchmont, scornfully. “ It was he who 
recommended the boy, who has proved so 
unworthy of your trust.” 

“ It was at my request that he took 
the trouble to find out the boy’s charac- 
ter — not to give him one,” she replied, 
with a certain stateliness. “ If there has 
been a mistake in the matter, it is mine, 
not his. But I want your opinion on the 
question which puzzles us both. You 
must understand that Mr. Archer sent for 
Hugh about dusk yesterday evening, and 
that while the boy was gone only one 


74 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


person went to his room. That person 
was one of the young Reynoldses.” 

“ What! ” said Marchmont. Surprise 
and dismay overmastered him, and he 
could not restrain the expression of both. 
“ Great Heaven ! ” he thought, “ can it be 
possible that, after all, the little wretch 
has betrayed me ? ” 

“The one named Felix,” said Miss 
Waldron, calmly. “ Hugh is positive that 
he did not touch the picture; but, as 
Mr. Archer remarks, the matter lies be- 
tween the two. If no one else entered the 
room, one or the other must be guilty.” 

Was it only Marchmont’s fancy, or did 
she slightly emphasize that “ if-” ? It was 
the first intimation he had had of Felix’s 
connection with the matter, and it startled 
him. Clearly there was nothing to be 
done hut to throw the weight of his opin- 
ion against Hugh. 

“ I have no idea that young Reynolds 
did take the picture,” he said, “and Dins- 
more’s bringing in his name looks suspi- 
cious. If one person went to his room, 
why should not another have done so — 
some confederate, perhaps, who was to 
steal the picture ? The fact of his going 
away and leaving the picture exposed, 
with the door open, looks very much like 
this ! ” 

“ Do you think so ? Then you believe 
that he is accountable for its loss ? ” 

Marchmont would willingly have 
avoided a direct answer to this question, 
but there was no alternative ; and after 
all, in a certain sense, Hugh, and Hugh 
alone, was accountable for the loss of the 
picture. “ Yes — I believe so,” he an- 
swered; “I can see nothing else to be- 
lieve.” 

Silence followed this reply. Laughter 
and challenging words, together with the 
clink of mallets and balls, came ringing 
from the croquet-ground, while through 
the open drawing-room windows floated 
the music of the piano and a high, clear 
voice singing a popular song. 

“ Fanny Stewart sings very well,” 
said Miss Waldron, presently, “ but there 


is no voice in Edgerton that can compare 
with that of your soprano, Mr. March- 
mont.” 

“You mean Amy Reynolds,” said 
Marchmont, as indifferently as possible, 
“ She certainly has a very fine voice.” 
Then he added, though he scarcely knew 
why, “Have you seen her lately? ” 

“I went to see her yesterday after- 
noon, in order to make some arrangement 
about her appearance at th.Q fete^ but I 
did not find her at home,” answered Miss 
Waldron. “The little girl whom I saw 
— her younger sister, I believe — said she 
had gone to walk. Perhaps you chanced 
to meet her ? ” 

“ I ? ” — lifting his eyebrows carelessly. 
“ Certainly not. Why should you im- 
agine such a thing ? ” 

She did not answer, but rose from her 
seat, looking very handsome, with her 
rich draperies sweeping round her ; while, 
under the straw hat which she wore, her 
cheeks had a crimson flush, her eyes a 
starry gleam. 

“ I must not detain you here, listening 
to my annoyances,” she said. “Are you 
fond of croquet ? Let ys go over to the 
ground.” 

“ What have I done, that you should 
forsake the beautiful shade of these ce- 
dars for that chattering mob yonder?” 
asked Marchmont, with the impatience 
which is often the best compliment that 
can be paid a woman. “ Pray don’t go 
— unless you are tired of me.” 

“One grows tired of sitting stiU,” she 
said, lightly. “ I am naturally restless. 
If you object to croquet, let us go to the 
fernery.” 

“The fernery, by all means! ” he an- 
swered, sauntering along by her side over 
the soft green turf, on which the sunshine 
lay like a mantle of gold. 

Everything was so gay and bright 
around them, and the whole scene so 
significant of luxury, pleasure, and that 
holiday side of life which makes up ex- 
istence for the children of prosperity, 
that any disturbing thought of annoy- • 


MRS. LATHROP FULFILLS A DUTY. 


75 


ance or pain seemed like an intrusion 
on tlie harmony of the surroundings. 
Marchrnont felt* this, and, being preemi- 
nently epicurean, he found no difficulty 
in banishing all such reflections from his 
mind. The attraction which Beatrix had 
for him was altogether different from 
Amy’s seduisante beauty, so the two did 
not conflict ; and no woman could have 
desired more devotion of look and tone 
than was displayed in his manner. 

When they entered the fernery he felt 
that Fate was propitious to him. Here 
he had made his declaration, and here all 
the associations were in his favor. 

He was by no means an impatient 
suitor, and entertained no doubt as to 
what Miss Waldron’s flnal answer would 
be ; but he was not averse to exchanging 
suspense for comfortable certainty as soon 
as possible. 

“ Do you remember the last time we 
were here together?” he asked, sinking 
his voice to that key of perilous softness 
which is so often affected by men of his 
stamp, as they slowly walked between 
the graceful, broad-leafed plants. 

“ I remember that I tried to interest 
you in the different varieties of ferns, and 
failed utterly — if that is what you mean,” 
said Miss Waldron. 

“ That is not exactly what I meant,” 
he answered, with a slight laugh. “I am 
afraid I shall repeat myself, if I say that 
my want of interest was easily account- 
ed for by preoccupation ; but it is true, 
nevertheless.” 

“ Preoccupation in me understood, I 
presume?” she said, coolly, and if her 
lip curled, he did not observe it. 

“Preoccupation in you certainly un- 
derstood!” he answered. “Could it be 
otherwise, when I was here with you? ” 

“That is a question which modesty 
forbids me to answer,” she said; “but, 
since you recall the occasion so well, I sup- 
pose you also remember that I gave you 
a fern — one of these ” — she paused before 
a plant bearing fairy -like fronds. “I 
wonder if you have it yet ? ” 


[ If Marchrnont had answered truly, he 
would have said that he had never thought 
of the fern after it had been given to him, 
i and had not the faintest idea of its fate ; 
j but he was the last man in the world to 
! tell an awkward or uncomplimentary 
truth simply because it was the truth. 
Therefore he answered, promptly : 

“ Of course I have it yet. Do you 
think I could have failed to value and 
preserve it ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” she said. “ Men do 
not usually value trifling souvenirs of 
the kind. Women — not men — preserve 
faded flowers and leaves as if they were 
priceless treasures — poor fools that they 
are ! ” she added, in a tone of half-sad 
contempt. 

“ Then we are all fools together,” said 
Marchrnont, smiling, “for men are guilty 
of such folly as often as women. Do you 
remember the reason that Owen Meredith 


gives for something of the kind ? — 

‘ Between two leaves of Petrarch 
There’s a purple rose-leaf pressed. 
More sweet than common roses. 

For it once lay on her breast.’ 

The fern of which you speak never had 
that happiness, but still it was your gift, 
and, as such, a treasure to me.” 

“ Yonder come Florence and Mr. 
Glenn,” said Beatrix, turning abruptly 
away. 


CHAPTER XIY. 

MRS. LATHROP FULFILLS A DUTY. 

The fate of the missing miniature re- 
I mained enveloped in mystery, for Oliver 
Reynolds, who alone could have thrown 
a partial light on the matter, had been 
frightened into holding his tongue. 

Before Oliver started with Tom White 
j on the day’s fishing, Marchrnont had seen 
I him, and told him that the picture was 
; lost. He also informed him that he had 
i found it to be of great value, and that, if 


76 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


he did not wish to he apprehended as a 
thief, he had better not drop the least 
hint of having seen or touched it. 

“No one can possibly suspect you, as 
matters stand,” Marchmont said, impres- 
sively ; “ but if you open your lips on the 
subject, you are lost. Don’t mention it 
to anybody, and I shall not betray you.” 

After mature deliberation, Oliver de- 
cided on this course, and it resulted ad- 
mirably. Being of a weak, cowardly na- 
ture, he was filled with consternation, and, 
having pledged himself to silence, faith- 
fully kept his pledge. 

If his conscience troubled him at all, 
no one observed the signs thereof ; but, 
in truth, no one had either the time or 
the inclination to observe Oliver. 

It was known to Amy and her father, 
though not mentioned to the younger chil- 
dren, that Felix was involved in the sus- 
picion which had fallen upon Hugh. This 
alone was trouble enough ; but a worse 
sorrow was in store, and suddenly burst 
on Mr. Reynolds without warning. 

He was at the Lathrop house, giving 
a music-lesson to Eunice, when, just be- 
fore the hour had expired, Mrs. Lathrop 
entered the room and sent her daughter 
away. 

“If you will excuse my disturbing 
your lesson, Mr. Reynolds,” she said, “I 
should like to speak to you for a few 
minutes.” 

When Eunice had departed, Mr. Rey- 
nolds, who was peculiarly intolerant of 
parental interference, and whose temper 
just now was far from sunny, buttoned 
his coat, took his roll of music, and, 
without sitting down, looked at the lady 
in a very aggressive fashion. Mrs. La- 
throp was not to be daunted, however, 
90 she cleared her throat, and began : 

“ I have a very unpleasant duty to 
perform, Mr. Reynolds,” she said; “but 
it is not my habit to shirk a duty, how- 
ever unpleasant it may be.” 

Mr. Reynolds muttered something in- 
audible and not complimentary. He had 
no doubt this majestic beginning prefaced 


fault-finding with Eunice’s progress, and 
he was ready to resent anything of the 
kind. 

“ I have always entertained a very 
friendly feeling toward you,” Mrs. La- 
throp proceeded, with stately condescen- 
sion, “ and I am truly sorry for a wid- 
ower with children — especially if those 
children are girls. A man is so incapable 
of managing— one might almost say, of 
understanding — girls.” 

At this point Mr. Reynolds could only 
stare — which he did with telling effect 
from under his shaggy eyebrows. It oc- 
curred to him to wonder what possible 
connection there was between his wid- 
owed state and Eunice’s music; but he 
was accustomed to Mrs. Lathrop’s disser- 
I tations, yet felt irritably averse to listen 
j to one just now. 

“If there is anything in your daugh- 
ter’s progress you don’t like — ” he began, 
abruptly, but Mrs. Lathrop interrupted 
him suavely. 

“ There is nothing,” she said — “ noth- 
ing whatever. I am perfectly satisfied 
with her advancement. Ah ! my dear Mr. 
Reynolds, it is not my daughter of whom 
I wish to speak, but your daughter.” 

“ My daughter ! ” repeated Mr. Rey- 
nolds. 

No suspicion of the truth came to 
him. He was aware that Amy’s wonder- 
ful voice began to be talked of, and he 
expected some advice or congratulation 
on that score. 

“Yes, your daughter,” replied Mrs. 
Lathrop, impressively. She folded her 
hands in her lap, and her cap-strings 
quivered with the energy of her interest. 
“I am very sorry to shock or pain you,” 
she went on ; “ but I feel that I should 
neglect a duty, if I did not warn you that 
this imprudent girl is being talked of in a 
way that will do her very serious injury.” 

“ Madam ! ” said Mr. Reynolds, with 
lightning darting from his eyes, “ I do not 
understand you ! ” 

“ I am told,” said Mrs. Lathrop, now 
embarked on her subject, “ that my neph- 


MRS. LATHROP FULFILLS A DUTY. 77 


ew, Brian Marchmont, is in the habit of 
seeing your daughter every day, of spend- 
ing hours in her society, and of taking 
long walks alone with her. You can 
judge for yourself whether such conduct 
is proper in a girl of her age and posi- 
tion. I confess that I was shocked when 
I first heard the gossip which has arisen 
on the subject.” 

. “ Gossip —about Amy! ” said Mr. Rey- 
nolds, with a gasp. 

He was too honestly dismayed to be 
indignant. There was something pathetic 
in the anxious look that came to his worn 
face. 

“ God forgive me ! ” he said, half 
under his breath. “ I ought to have 
watched over her more carefully ; I ought 
to have remembered that she has no 
mother . — What do people say ?” he went 
on, sharply, turning to Mrs. Lathrop. 
“Let me hear the worst.” 

“I do not think they say anything 
at present worse than the truth — that 
Brian is amusing himself with her,” that 
lady replied. “Girls’ hearts, fortunate- 
ly, are not easily broken ; but worse may 
come if the matter is not stopped. I have 
spoken to Brian, but, of course, without 
effect. It rests with you to control your 
daughter.” 

Mr. Reynolds muttered something in- 
coherent, seized his hat, and, before Mrs. 
Lathrop could offer any further advice, 
unceremoniously left the room. 

Not a single recollection of pupils or 
appointments occurred to him as he 
swiftly walked along the streets toward 
his own house. He could think of noth- 
ing but the news which had been told ; 
he could do nothing but execrate his 
own carelessness, which had suffered Amy 
to become the subject of amusement for 
a man like Brian Marchmont. His hand 
involuntarily clinched itself, and his 
brows knit closer together. 

Two of his pupils who met him shrank 
affrighted. 

“How angry Mr. Reynolds looks!” 
they whispered, as he passed. “Some- 


body must have been doing a lesson very 
badly.” 

As he approached his house he heard 
I the pure, silvery tones of Amy’s voice, 

^ together with the chords of the piano ; 

I and when he entered the parlor he found 
Marchmont playing the accompaniment, 
while she stood by him singing one of 
the songs selected for the Cedarwood 
fete. 

At her father’s unexpected entrance 
she stopped abruptly — not so much be- 
cause he entered, as because she caught 
at once the expression of his face, and it 
made her heart sink instantly. 

Though by no means a tyrant in his 
family, all the members of it knew that 
Mr. Reynolds was not to be trifled with ; 
and when his wrath was roused, they 
shrank before him as his pupils did. 

Amy saw the signs of storm very 
plainly, so her voice ceased as suddenly 
as if a hand had been laid on her throat ; 
and when Marchmont turned in surprise, 

I he also beheld the fierce countenance of 
I monsieur le pere. 

I His prophetic soul warned him of a 
! scene at once, and he rose quickly from 
; the piano-stool ; but there was no awk- 
ward consciousness of detection and guilt 
in his manner. 

“Good-morning, Mr. Reynolds,” he 
I said, easily. “I hope you do not object 
j to an amateur substitute. I have been 
playing Miss Amy’s accompaniment, and 
venturing to offer her a little instruc- 
tion.” 

“I object exceedingly to your pres- 
ence, sir ! ” replied Mr. Reynolds, sternly. 
“ I am quite able to give my daughter all 
the instruction she needs, and I have come 
to tell her that I forbid her to receive 
I your visits or hold any further communi- 
I cation with you. I have just heard of 
' your constant presence in my house,” he 
I went on, in a voice that trembled with 
; anger, “ and of the gossip to which it has 
' given rise. You must have known this 
very well, and yet you have continued to 
take advantage of this child’s youth and 


78 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


ignorance. You are no gentleman, and I 
am glad to find you here, in order that I 
may tell you to leave the house and never 
enter it again.” 

“Your excitement is your excuse for 
this insult,” said Marchmont, calmly. 

Since his aunt’s threat he had been 
prepared for something of this kind, so 
he was not astonished, much less discom- 
posed. 

He extended his hand for his hat, 
which was on the top of the piano, and 
walked up to Amy, who looked as if the 
entire fabric of existence was tumbling ! 
about her ears. 

“ I am sorry that my presence should 
have caused you this annoyance,” he said ; 
“but I must thank you for the many 
pleasant hours I have enjoyed in your so- 
ciety. Good-by.” 

She could not utter a single word, but 
looked at him with eyes full of such pas- 
sionate appeal, that it was only by a 
strong effort he maintained his compos- 
ure of manner. To do so was a neces- 
sity, however, with the gaze of Mr. Rey- 
nolds upon him ; he therefore turned 
quickly, and, without another word, 
passed from the house. 

As the ring of his step sounded on the 
sidewalk below the window, and Amy 
realized that he was absolutely gone, a 
low cry broke from her lips. 

“O papa! papa! how could you?” 
she said, bursting into tears of grief and 
rage. 

Mr. Reynolds walked across the room 
and seized her arm — not harshly, hut 
with a pressure that compelled atten- 
tion and checked summarily the angry 
sobs. ; 

“Listen to me!” he said. “I am ' 
willing to overlook a good deal of folly j 
in a girl of your age, left without a j 
mother and with little care ; but you are 
old enough to comprehend, when I tell 
you that you are standing on the brink 
of disgrace. If you meet that man again, ' 
either in this house or out of it, you will ! 
do so at your peril, for I forbid you to i 


see or speak to him. Now, go to your 
room, and do not leave it again until I 
send for you.” 

Thoroughly awed by his tone and 
manner, Amy obeyed. Sobbing under 
her breath, she slowly wended her way 
up-stairs and entered her chamber, clos- 
ing the door behind her. Notwithstand- 
ing its being closed, she heard her father 
call Clara and speak to her in an ener- 
getic manner. 

“ He’s telling her to watch me like — 
like a dragon, I know ! ” Amy said to 
herself as she lay prone on the bed in 
utter wretchedness. 

This was the last drop in her full cup 
of anguish. To have seen Marchmont or- 
dered from the house ; to be forbidden 
to meet him ; to be confined to her room, 
and to have Clara placed as sentinel over 
her — Amy felt that human misery could 
go no further. 

In truth, the girl was miserable with 
that intense wretchedness of youth which 
never looks beyond the moment. She 
suffered, as she enjoyed, with her whole 
soul ; and just now her suffering was of 
the keenest nature. 

It was not without its ray of hope, 
for she had a comfortable assurance that 
Marchmont would find some way to set 
everything right; neither was she in- 
different to the romantic side of the dis- 
tress; but these sources of consolation 
were at least vague, while her grievances 
were real. 

Their reality increased very much in 
the course of the next few days. March- 
mont, who felt that he had carried his 
flirtation as far as was prudent — for him- 
self — accepted the situation, and left Amy 
severely and sadly alone. It cost him 
something to do this, but his aunt’s warn- 
ing had opened his eyes to the danger of 
his position, and he felt that he dared not 
trifle further with the serious interests at 
stake. He gave a sigh to the piquant 
little beauty, who, he had not the least 
doubt, was weeping out her eyes for him ; 
but, on the whole, he was obliged to Mr- 


MRS. LATHROP FULFILLS A DUTY. 


79 


Reynolds for exiling him so summarily 
from his paradise of roses, and giving 
him so good an excuse for absenting 
himself altogether from the shabby little 
house in R Street. 

As day followed day without any word i 
or token from him, the world for Amy 
seemed to come to an end. She had no 
idea how completely his presence filled 
her life until he had vanished from it, 
leaving so terrible a blank behind. 

She pined until she was sick; she 
wept and watched until she was almost 
blind ; and her fate was like that of Mari- 
ana in the moated grange. 

“He must have forgotten me ! ” she 
would sob to herself. “If he wanted to 
see me, he could find some way to do 
so! ” 


Altogether a cloud rested over the 
Reynolds household during these days. 
Felix’s departure for Germany was de- 
layed, partly on account of Mr. Trafford’s 
temporary absence from Edgerton, and 
partly because of the suspicion concerning 
the miniature, which hung over him as 
well as Hugh. 

This mystery remained as deep as 
ever, and baffled every one engaged in 
its elucidation. Marchmont alone was 
easy in mind. He did not doubt but 
that he had dropped the picture on the 
street, and whoever picked it up, recog- 
nizing the value of the setting, had qui- 
etly retained it. The fact that he was 
accountable for its disappearance did not 
trouble him at all. Whether it remained 
lost, or whether it were found, it could 
not be traced to Mm—ot that he felt sure, 
and therefore he made himself thorough- 
ly easy. 

This ease was not emulated by the 
rightful owners of the picture. General 
Waldron, outraged at the loss of such a 
valuable family relic, was decidedly of 
opinion that Hugh should be threatened 
with legal prosecution if it was not pro- 
duced; but to this his daughter would 
not agree. 

“ It was my fault, papa,” she said. 


I 


“ and I cannot consent that he should bear 
the penalty. I may have been wrong to 
put the miniature in his hands, but I do 
not— I cannot — believe that he has taken 
it.” 

Her unsupported opinion might not 
have had much weight with her father, 
but Archer strongly indorsed it. 

“That boy has no more taken the 
picture than I have,” he said. “One has 
only to look at him to see that he has 
wasted away to a shadow through sheer 
anxiety since its loss.” 

“ Somebody must have taken it,” said 
General Waldron, positively. 

“There is no doubt of that,” Archer 
quietly replied. “ Somebody certainly 
must have taken it.” 

He did not say so to any one save 
Beatrix, but his own impression was that 
Felix Reynolds had taken it. He con- 
fessed, however, that there was very little 
“showing of a case” against him, and 
that to have him arrested on a charge of 
theft would be an extreme step not war- 
ranted by the evidence. 

Around Hugh troubles thickened at 
this time. To the Lathrops the fact of 
his guilt seemed so clear that Mr. Lathrop 
dismissed him from his employ. 

Worse even than this, Mr. Reynolds 
resented so bitterly the shadow which 
had partly fallen on Felix, that Hugh 
found himself unwelcome in the house 
which always before had been like home 
to him. 

That the poor boy grew wan and 
hollow-eyed under the burden of these 
accumulated misfortunes was not remark- 
able, and Mrs. Sargent expressed her firm 
belief that he would die before long if 
matters did not mend. 

“He doesn’t eat, he doesn’t sleep, ho 
does nothing but pine and mope,” she 
said. “ There’s a deal of sickness in Edg- 
erton now, and he’s just in the state to go 
oflf sudden like.” 

While affairs were in this unsatisfac- 
tory ' state, many preparations for the 
long-talked-of Cedarwood fUe were in 


80 


AFTER MANY DATS. 


progress. General Waldron, who took 
more interest in the matter than his 
daughter, personally superintended all 
the arrangements. The grounds were to 
be illuminated ; the large drawing-room, 
which was to serve first as a concert- 
room and then as a ballroom, was beau- 
tifully decorated, and it was generally 
understood in Edgerton that “ no expense 
was to be spared ” to make the entertain- 
ment a brilliant success. 

As time went on, Amy looked forward 
to this occasion with almost- feverish anx- 
iety, realizing as she did that it was her 
only chance of seeing Marchmont. 

Since the morning when her father 
had ordered him to leave the house she 
had not exchanged a word with him, and 
she was not so much a child but that she 
ielt keenly that this was his fault. 

There could be no doubt that she was 
tasting the fruit of the tree of knowl- 
edge, and finding it very bitter. She 
was wounded not only in her heart, but [ 
in her pride, by his utter neglect. 

“ A word from him ^y6uld make every- 
thing right,” she thought, “ and he will 
not speak it.” 

The inference to be drawn from this 
was plain even to her, and what with , 
tearful days and sleepless nights, signs of 
suffering began to appear on the fair 
young face, which had never marred its 
Hebe joyousness before. 

As Mrs. Sargent shook her head over 
Hugh, so Clara shook Tier head over Amy. 

“Things are pretty bad with Miss 
Amy, when she don’t care nothing ’bout 
her dress for that big party she’s goin’ 
to!” this close observer said to Felix. 
“I’ve fluted it beautiful, but she hasn’t 
even looked at it.” 

This, if Clara had known it, was sig- 
nificant not only of Amy’s grief but of • 
Amy’s age. Older women may be heart- 
broken, but they do not neglect their 
toilets. 

Sixteen — foolish in this as in every- 
thing else — throws all thought of adorn- 
ment to the winds, and feels, like Thekla — 


“ I have lived and loved, but that was to-day ; 

Make ready my ginve-clothes to-morrow.’’ 

On the day of the fHe Amy was seat- 
ed in the garden, engaged in fringing a 
rose-colored sash that looked as little as 
possible like grave-clothes. 

She was silent, for of late she never 
sang except when she practised, but, be- 
ing plunged in thought, she heard no 
sound of approaching steps, nor was con- 
scious of any presence near, until a fa- 
miliar voice said : 

“ Good-morning, my dear. I am glad 
to see you again.” 

She glanced up with a start, and saw 
Mr. Trafford standing before her, with a 
look of unmistakable pleasure on his face 
as he held out his hand. 

“ I hope you have missed me a little,” 
he said, with a smile, after she had ut- 
tered the usual commonplace greetings. 
“I have been gone — let me see — eight 
days, I believe. What have you been do- 
ing with yourself during all that time ? ” 

“Nothing — in particular,” she fal- 
tered, remembering with how much of 
sadness those eight days had been fraught. 

Mr. Trafibrd’s keen glance rested on 
her face, and noted every line of the 
chrmge there. “ I am afraid it has been 
something very much in particular,” he 
said. “ Have you been unwell ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” she answered, im- 
patiently. “ I am always well.” 

“ Have you been unhappy, then ? ’,’ 

“Why do you ask me such a ques- 
tion?” she demanded, flushing. “Do I 
look wretched ? I am sorry if I do, for 
I suppose I have no more cause to be so 
than many other people.” 

“Eight days ago you had, so far as I 
knew, no cause to be so,” said Mr. TraF 
ford, gravely. “ What has wrought such 
a change? Come, my dear girl — I am 
your sincere friend, and I do not ask 
from idle curiosity — tell me ? ” 

Poor Amy hesitated, and the great 
tears welled up into her eyes. “I — I 
would not mind telling you if there were 
any good in it,” she said; “but there 


A TRIUMPHANT DEBUT. 


81 


isn’t. You couldn’t help me — not at all. 
We have been very much worried about 
Felix,” she went on, eagerly, anxious to 
lead her companion’s attention away from 
her own trouble. “ It seems too infamous 
that suspicion should fall on him about 
that miniature.” 

“ On Felix ! ” said Mr. Trafford, look- 
ing amazed. “ What are you talking 
about ? ” 

“ I forgot that it happened after you 
went away,” she said, “ so I suppose you 
have not heard of it.” 

Then she told him the story of the 
disappearance of the miniature, and Fe- 
lix’s connection therewith. 

He listened attentively, and seemed 
struck by the fact that, up to the present 
time, no clew had been discovered. “ Are 
you quite sure they have not found out 
anything? ” he asked, more than once. 

“ I am perfectly sure,” Amy answered. 
“ That odious Mr. Archer has been to see 
Felix, and insinuated some things, for 
which, if I w^ere a man,” she cried, with 
flashing eyes, “ I would shoot him! ” 

“ And how does Felix take it? ” asked 
Mr. Trafford. 

“Felix is dreadfully distressed,” she 
replied, “and he will not hear of going 
away — much as he wishes to start for 
Germany — until the thing is cleared up. 
I am afraid he will be ill from excite- 
ment and worry.” 

“ His mind must be relieved at once,” 
said Mr. Trafford. “ If I had suspected 
this, I would have come back sooner.” 

Amy opened her eyes. 

“You talk as if you had the minia- 
ture in your pocket,” she said. “I don’t 
think anything will relieve Felix’s mind 
except some certainty about it.” 

“ Then we must obtain the certainty,” 
said Mr. Trafford, with the air of a man 
to whom everything was possible. “ How 
about poor Dinsmore ? The affair must 
fall heavily on him.” 

“No doubt it does,” responded Amy, 
indifferently. “I have not thought of 
him much, and papa does not like to hear 


his name mentioned. The picture was in 
his possession, and his carelessness was 
the cause of its loss. Of course, there- 
fore, he must expect to be held account- 
able ; but Felix — ” 

“Yes, it is hard,” said Mr. Trafford, 
absently. Presently, with a change of 
subject so abrupt that it fairly startled 
her, he said : “ Oliver and Ernest are at 
school — are they not? ” 

“Yes,” she answered; “they are al- 
j ways at school this time of day. Why do 
' you ask ? ” — for Oliver and Ernest were 
by no means favorites of this eccentric 
gentleman. 

’ “ I want to see one of them,” he an- 

: swered. “Send Oliver over to me when 
he comes home. Do you know where I 
am likely to find Hugh Dinsmore? ” 

“ At his boarding-house, I suppose,” 
Amy answered^ more and more surprised. 
“He is not likely to be anywhere else, 
for I have heard that Mr. Lathrop has 
discharged him. 

“Humph! ” said Mr. Trafford, with a 
significance which she only partly under- 
stood. He drew his brows together, and 
muttered one or two forcible words un- 
der his mustache ; then he held out his 
I hand again. “ Keep up your heart, my 
dear,” he said, “ and don’t sadden your 
pretty face for the sake of a man who is 
a contemptible sneak. Good-morning ! ” 


CHAPTER XY. 

A TEIUMPHANT nfeBUT. 

It was impossible for Amy not to feel 
as if some great delight was in store for 
her, when she put the last touches to her 
toilet on the evening of the fete to which 
she had so long and so earnestly looked 
forward. Her dress was of simple white 
muslin, and flowers were her only orna- 
ments; but the freshness of her beauty 
needed no further adornment, and even 
the dim little glass into which she gazed 


82 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


gave back a reflection that might have 
satisfled the most exacting woman. 

The girl looked at it with passionate 
eagerness. Was she beautiful? Would 
he think her so ? These were the ques- 
tions she was asking herself, while excite- 
ment filled her veins like electricity. She 
was fairly quivering with it as her slen- 
der fingers placed the rose-red roses in 
her hair. Ever afterward the fragrance 
of these particular roses was hateful to 
her — ever afterward it brought back that 
evening when she stood hoping, long- 
ing, fearing, while crowning herself with 
them. 

The last touch had been given, the last 
flower placed in position, and she was 
gazing at herself, wishing her father was 
ready to go, when she heard the sound of 
quick steps in the hall below, and the 
eager tones of an excited voice. 

“ Who can that be ? ” she said. “ Ma- 
riette, run down and see ! ” 

Mariette, who had been serving as a 
willing candle-holder, ran at once, and in 
a minute came flying back. “ It’s Hugh,” 
she cried ; “ and he says the picture’s 
found ! ” 

“Found! — where?” asked Amy, in 
amazement. 

But Mariette had not waited for any 
details ; she only knew that Hugh was in 
the parlor with Felix, and that he said the 
picture was found. 

Full of eagerness, Amy ran down- 
stairs. She had no desire to see Hugh, 
but the suspense of ungratified curiosity 
was something which, in her present 
mood, she was altogether unable to en- 
dure. When she entered the dusky par- 
lor — for it was only lighted by a single 
candle on the high mantel-piece — Hugh, 
who was talking to Felix, stared at the 
white-robed, festive figure as if it were a 
vision. 

“ What is this about the picture ? ” 
Amy cried, before he could speak. “ Who 
found it ? — where was it found ? ” 

“That is a secret Just now,” Hugh 
answered ; “I am bound by a promise 


not to tell anything about it to-night. 
But I felt that I must come and let Felix 
know that it is safe in Miss Waldron’s 
hands, and that both he and I are free 
from blame.” 

“But how did it get into Miss Wal- 
dron’s hands?” asked Amy, impatiently. 

“ What does that matter? ” said Felix, 
who was seated as usual on the piano- 
stool. “It is found — that is enough — 
and I shall start for Germany to-morrow.” 

“And I shall go with you!” said 
Hugh, with his eyes shining like stars. 
“ That is glorious news, isn’t it ? Gener- 
al Waldron has offered to send me abroad 
to study art.” 

“O Hugh!” exclaimed Amy, clasp- 
ing her hands. “ Are you in earnest ? ” 

“ Yes, I am in earnest,” answered 
Hugh. “ It seems like a dream, but it is 
a fact. Are you glad, Amy? ” he asked, 
a little wistfully. 

“I am glad for you,” Amy answered. 
“ But,” she added, with a sudden remem- 
brance of all that he had been to her as 
a constant companion, a loyal champion, 
and a devoted subject, “ I am sorry for 
myself.” 

“ What is the use of being sorry, when 
you’ll go away yourself before long to 
learn how to sing? ” demanded Felix. 
“ When you are a great singer, and Hugh’s 
a great painter, and I’m a great musician, 
how glorious it will be! ” 

“ Tremendously glorious ! ” exclaimed 
Hugh ; “ but just now I had rather hear 
that Amy is sorry, than to anticipate that 
splendid time.” 

“But liwillhQ splendid ! ” said Felix, 
on whose pale, thin cheeks a feverish flush 
was glowing. “Some day Amy and I 
will give concerts together. Amy, come 
here and sing your songs for Hugh.” 

He turned quickly to the keyboard, 
and struck the chords of accompaniment 
as he spoke, while Amy, not at all unwill- 
ing, advanced to his side. 

As she poured forth, in her pure, fresh 
voice, the songs she was to sing at Cedar- 
wood a few hours hence, and Felix’s flex- 


A TRIUMPHANT D^BUT. 


83 


ile fingers swept the keys, Hugh took in 
the scene with a sort of lingering inten- 
sity, feeling that it would long dwell in 
his memory. The piano, littered with 
sheet-music, the dim, shadowy room, the 
fragile, slender boy-musician, and the 
beautiful young songstress who stood by 
his side — the picture, in all its details, 
struck his artistic fancy, while, with a 
pang, he felt that he was standing on the 
threshold of a change that would make 
this shabby old parlor, and all that it con- 
tained, part of an irrevocable past. 

“ I suppose you feel that you are on 
the eve of your first triumph, Amy,” he 
said, when the songs were ended, and he 
had expressed his admiration — very sin- 
cere admiration, though tinctured with 
sadness. 

“ I hope so,” answered Amy; “ but I 
feel a little nervous. When I am on the 
eve of a real triumph, I may remember 
this, and think how absurd it was to be 
excited by a private concert.” 

“Little things seem great to begin- 
ners,” said Hugh. “ And is Felix to play 
your accompaniments? ” 

“ Yes, but that is nothing — I mean, he 
would not go only for that. He is to play 
a sonata of Mozart’s, which nobody will 
understand.” 

“ I will make them understand it,” 
said Felix. “Listen, Hugh! ” 

Then he began to play ; but it is to be 
feared that the great waves of harmony 
rolled past Hugh without obtaining due 
appreciation, for Amy crossed the room 
to his side, and laid her hand on his arm. 

“ Tell me, Hugh,” she whispered, 
coaxingly, “ where was the miniature 
found ? ” 

“ I can’t tell,” answered Hugh, smil- 
ing. “ You must wait a little while. 
Perhaps ” — and here his voice grew more 
grave — “you will not be pleased when 
you hear everything connected with it.” 

“ Why should I not be pleased ? ” she 
asked. “ What have I to do with it ? ” 

“ You ? — nothing. But don’t question 
me, for I do not want to tell you anything. 


Amy ” — a pause — “ do you think you will 
remember me after I am gone? ” 

“ Of course I shall remember you ! ” 
replied Amy, in a matter-of-fact tone. 
“ How could I possibly forget you, when 
we have been such good comrades for so 
long?” she asked, with a smile brimful 
of beguiling coquetry. 

Hugh expressed his feelings by some- 
thing closely resembling a groan. 

“ It hasn’t been much comradeship 
with me,” he said. “ You know I love 
you better than my life, Amy; and if 
you would give a little hope before I go 
away — if you would only say that some 
day you may think well enough of me to 
marry me — ” 

“ That is nonsense, Hugh ! ” inter- 
rupted Amy, with asperity. “ A boy like 
you talking of marrying I I never heard 
anything so absurd. I have told you be- 
fore that I like you as a friend ” — very 
decidedly — “ but I shall never like you in 
any other way — never ! ” 

“You can’t be sure of that — you are 
too young,” said Hugh, making a despair- 
ing appeal against this crushing decision. 

“ I am just as sure as if I were fifty,” 
answered Amy, positively. “ I am fond 
of you in a certain way, but it is not that 
way.” 

She shuddered as she spoke, for some- 
thing almost like repugnance came over 
her as she compared the figure before her 
with the lover for whom her heart was 
sick. 

Youth is very cruel, especially when 
it suffers ; therefore she felt none of the 
compassion which an older woman might 
have entertained for the boy whose hopes 
she was ruthlessly treading under foot, 
and who, during many years, had garnered 
all his store of affection in her. 

After her last words he was silent for 
a few minutes, and it chanced that just 
then Felix was playing an exquisite pia- 
nissimo passage, “ Soft as the memory of 
buried love,” and sad as its lament. Hugh 
hardly heard it, yet it entered into his 
thoughts and seemed like a requiem to 


84 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


him. When he spoke, it was to say, 
slowly : 

“ If you are so certain, I won’t trouble 
you any more. I never thought you could 
like me very much now^ but I thought, 
perhaps, you could give a sort of promise 
when I went away, and, in case I accom- 
plish all I hope to do, I could claim it. I 
should work harder for fame if I saw you 
at the end ; but there is no good in talk- 
ing if it is not to be. I am only sorry, 
oh, very sorry, that you are throwing 
away what is true for what is false. 
Somehow I have an instinct, Amy, that ■ 
when you make your choice now you will j 
make it for good.” 

“ I hope I shall ! ” said Amy, with an 
indignant quiver in her voice. 

Just here, Mr. Eeynolds was heard on 
the staircase saying : 

“ Amy, are you ready ? ” 

“ Yes, papa, as soon as I get my cloak 
and gloves,” answered Amy, darting 
away. 

“ Felix, my boy, are you sure you feel 
well enough to go? ” the musician asked, 
entering the room. Then, to his surprise, 
he saw Hugh, and stopped with an abrupt 
“Humph!” 

“ Good-evening, Mr. Eeynolds,” the 
latter said, a little coldly, for he felt keen- 
ly the injustice to which he had been sub- 
jected. “I have only come to tell Felix 
that the miniature which was so mysteri- 
ously lost has been found.” 

“ What! — found! ” exclaimed Mr. Eey- 
nolds, quickly. “Where? — by whom?” 

“I am not allowed to tell that to- 
night. Mr. Trafford will explain the 
whole affair to you to-morrow.” 

“Mr. Trafford! What has Mr. Traf- 
ford to do with it ? ” 

“ He will answer that himself,” replied 
Hugh, quietly. 

He rose as he spoke, said good-even- 
ing, and went away. 

“ Papa, may I start to-morrow ? ” 
asked Felix, pleadingly. “ Mr. Trafford 
has come, and the picture is found. There 
is nothing now to keep me.” 


“ Only that you are to unwell to trav- 
el,” said Mr. Eeynolds, gravely. “Let 
me feel your pulse. My boy, you have a 
fever now. Is it merely from excitement, 
or are you ill ? ” 

“Only excitement, I suppose,” Felix 
answered, eagerly. “Don’t make me 
stay at home, papa ! I want to go.” 

When Felix said “I want to” do a 
thing, the matter was settled with Mr. 
Eeynolds. 

Though cold, and often severe, to his 
other children, he idolized this boy, and 
indulged him beyond the ordinary meas- 
ure of parental indulgence. The fact was 
easily accounted for on the score of his 
delicate health, and gentle, rarely-gifted 
nature. He had never been like other 
boys, and his father had always felt that 
an organization so sensitively balanced 
demanded the most tender care, and 
might at any time slip away out of the 
I region of material things into those purely 
spiritual. 

The grounds and windows of Cedar- 
wood were blazing with a multitude of 
lights, and the company were arriving in 
constant detachments, when Mr. Eeynolds 
and his children drove up to the door — 
Mrs. Crenshaw having kindly lent them 
an old-fashioned one-horse “rockaway,” 
in which she occasionally made short 
journeys at a funeral pace. 

Amy, who had often laughed at this 
sober conveyance, might at another time 
have felt aggrieved at the necessity of 
using it ; but now she was too preoccupied, 
too eagerly anxious to reach Cedarwood, 
to care by what means she was conveyed 
there. 

When she first caught sight of the 
house — which looked like a fairy-palace 
gleaming against the steel-blue sky — she 
uttered a cry of delight. Surely Happi- 
ness must dwell in such scenes as those ! 
At this moment a Chrysostom could not 
have persuaded her to the contrary. 

As they entered the house and passed 
along the hall, she caught a glimpse of a 


A TRIUMPHANT DEBUT. 


85 


crimson-carpeted stage, framed in a flow- 
ery arch at the farther end of the large 
drawing-room.- The beauty of the dec- 
oration on all sides fairly dazzled her, 
utterly unaccustomed as she was to such 
scenes. 

Many debutantes in her position would 
have been awed, but Amy was only ex- 
cited. The love of the world, the pas- 
sionate desire for the things of the world, 
which had been always inherent in her, 
seemed to gain fresh vigor at this first 
contact with the object of her dreams. 

“Some day I shall be rich, too! ” she 
whispered to Felix. 

And he answered : 

“ You will be a great artist — that will 
be better.” 

Amy did not reply, but, if she had 
done so, it would not have been to agree 
with him. Perhaps there was not the 
material of the real artist in her — at least 
it is certain that now, as ever, she thought 
more of the rewards of art than of its 
exercise. 

If she had been satisfied with her ap- 
pearance when it was reflected by the 
dim little mirror in her own chamber, 
she was more than satisfied — she was 
delighted — when she saw herself in the 
great cheval-glass of the dressing-room 
into which she was shown. 

“I am lovely ! ” she thought, with a 
thrill of pride. “No one here to-night 
'will be lovelier, and surely he will think 
so.” 

Of the “he” who filled so large a 
place in her thoughts she saw nothing in 
the interval of time which elapsed before 
the entertainment began. 

At the end of the drawing-room a 
smaller apartment served as a green-room 
for the performers, and here she was con- 
ducted. It was filled by the gay young 
ladies and gentlemen of “The Cecilia,” 
all of whom knew her slightly, and spoke 
with the sort of good-humored condescen- 
sion to which she was accustomed, and 
which she always resented. To-night, 
however, she felt it less than usual, her 


mind being occupied with other consid- 
erations. 

She paid little attention to the concert 
until it was her turn to appear. But when 
Felix and herself were summoned to the 
crimson-covered stage lined with flowers, 

I where a grand piano stood, she felt for 
' the first time as if her heart rose into her 
I throat. It was purely the effect of ner- 
vous excitement, and vanished when she 
found herself before the audience. A 
sense of power came to her then, and she 
[ stood by the instrument perfectly com- 
posed and graceful, while Felix played a 
I short prelude. There was a stir of inter- 
I est among the company below — a general 
lifting of eye-glasses. 

“ What a lovely girl I Who is she ? ” 
many asked. “ Is it possible that is Amy 
Reynolds?” said others. “By Jove! 
she’s a regular beauty ! ” the younger men 
remarked. 

But these comments ceased when she 
I began to sing, and her voice rose so pure, 
j so fresh, so powerful in its untried sweet- 
' ness, that even those who knew least of 
music were amazed and enthralled. Such 
singing had seldom, if ever before, been 
heard in Edgerton, for Amy, as she had 
said of herself on the day when March- 
mont heard her first, was “inspired.” 
Even her father was astonished by the 
silvery clearness, the liquid richness, of 
' her notes. 

“It is marvelous — marvelous!” he 
j said to himself. “ There is a fortune in 
her voice.” 

She was applauded rapturously, and 
as she was turning to leave the stage, 
i flushed and trembling with the delightful 
certainty of triumph — for she could hear 
the exclamations of admiration passing 
I from lip to lip among the audience — a 
bouquet suddenly fell at her feet. As 
Felix stooped for it, she sent one swift 
glance in the direction whence it came, 
and met Marchmont’s eyes. 

The gaze lasted only an instant, but 
in that instant she read enough to set her 
heart beating. What telegraph is there 


86 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


like the human glance ? What assurances 
can he given of love or hate, what pas- 
sionate protestations silently made in less 
than a heart-beat of time! So it was 
now, as, grasping her flowers nervously, 
she hurried away, thinking joyously, “ He 
is true ! — he is true ! He loves me yet ! ” 

The members of “ The Cecilia ” crowd- 
ed round her, and overwhelmed her with 
congratulations. 

“What a beautiful, beautiful voice 
you have 1 ” one after another cried. 
“ Why did you never let us hear it before ? 
Y'ou sang divinely! Y^ou will be a great 
prima-donna some day ! ” 

“lam positively ashamed to sing after 
you ! ” said the star soprano. 

Compliments were very pleasant to 
Amy, but her bouquet was best of all. 
She retired to a corner and buried her 
face in its sweetness while the concert 
went on. Every flower seemed to say 
that before the evening was over the hap- 
piness for which she longed would be 
hers. 

Felix’s sonata was a great success, for 
though there were only a few persons in 
the audience capable of appreciating the 
wonderful technique and masterly com- 
mand of the instrument which the hoy- 
musician possessed, these led the applause 
in which the others willingly joined. 

Amy’s second song was even more 
warmly received than the first. It 
was a sparkling operatic melody, which 
showed not only her voice, hut her dra- 
matic ability to great advantage. She 
was encored so persistently that Mr. 
Reynolds consented to her returning, so 
Felix led her hack, and she sang “ Within 
a Mile of Edinhoro’ Town ” with charm- 
ing piquancy. 

“ What a trump-card you have found, 
Beatrix ! ” cried a vivacious young lady 
rushing across the room to where Miss 
Waldron sat. “Who could have im- 
agined that little Amy Reynolds, whom 
we have seen grow up before our eyes, 
would prove such a marvel ? I vow she 
sings as well as NiUson ! ” 


“ She will sing as well as Nillson some 
day, I have no doubt,” replied Miss Wal- 
dron. “ She has a wonderful voice, ” 

“ And how did you find her out ? Did 
Mr. Reynolds tell you about her ? ” 

“No,” answered Beatrix; “I am in- 
debted to Mr. Marchmont for a knowl- 
edge of her ability, and, therefore, you 
are indebted to him for the pleasure you 
have enjoyed — since I had great trouble 
in persuading Mr. Reynolds to let her ap- 
pear.” 


1 


I 


“Indeed ! ” said the young lady, turn- 
ing to Marchmont, who, looking thor- 
oughly at ease with himself and the 
world in general, was sitting by the young 
heiress’s side. — “And pray, Mr. March- 
mont, if I may be allowed to ask, how did 
you find her out? ” 

“ I have a divining-rod for discovering 
hidden genius,” replied Marchmont, calm- 
ly. “ She will do my intuition credit, I 
think. What is this we are to have now ? 
— a glee? It closes the concert, I be- 
lieve.” 

“ Y^es, it closes the concert,” said Miss 
Waldron. “You can fiU up your ball- 
book as fast as you please, Emma.” 

“It is very nearly filled.” said Emma. 
“Only one or two dances are yet un- 
claimed.” 

She looked at Marchmont as she 
spoke, but he did not ofier to claim one, 
and, since the glee began, she was obliged 
to return to her seat. Then he turned to 
Miss Waldron and said : 

“I hope you will give me the first 
dance, and any other you can spare.” 

“ I hardly think I shall dance more 
than once or twice,” she answered, care- 
lessly ; “ and it has been a matter of tra- 
dition, ever since I was eighteen, that I 
should open my birth-night ball with one 
of our old friends. I have not decided 
who it shall be, but you know you do not 
belong to that class.” 

“Unfortunately, no; but the oldest 
friends are not always the best. Will 
you not break through the tradition to- 
night — for me ? ” 


87 


A TRIUMPHANT DEBUT. 


The last words were very low, the 
handsome eyes very soft, but she turned 
her own away.. 

“It is impossible,” she said, coldly. 
“People would imagine — a great deal 
which would have no foundation. I will 
put you down for a quadrille later in the 
evening, if I should dance again, which 
is rather unlikely.” 

“ I shall be grateful for anything you 
choose to give me,” he answered, a little 
coldly, in turn. 

It did not need this rebuff to show 
him that he was out of favor to-night; 
he had been aware of it ever since he first 
approached Miss Waldron. During the 
past few days she had fenced off all lov- 
er-like advances, and kept him very clev- 
erly at a distance ; but he had esteemed 
such conduct to be merely coquetry, and 
had given it little thought. Now, how- 
ever, he was sure that some serious in- 
fiuence was at work, and he felt some- 
what uneasy as well as considerably of- 
fended. 

Under the influence of the last feeling, 
he left his chair and quitted the drawing- 
room before the glee was ended. Pass- 
ing along the hall, he approached the 
door of the apartment behind the stage. 

As he did so, the person of whom he 
was in search came rushing out so eager- 
ly that she almost ran into his arms. 

“What is the matter?” he asked, as 
she caught herself just in time to avoid 
a collision. “ Has anything happened ? ” 

“ 0 Mr. Marchmont ! ” she exclaimed. 
Then she went on quickly : “Yes, some- 
thing has happened. Felix has nearly 
fainted, and I want water for him.” 

“ Go back, and I will bring it to you,” 
said Marchmont. 

The water was easily procured, and 
wine also. Followed by a servant carry- 
ing both, Marchmont went to the room, 
where he found Amy and Felix alone, 
the members of “ The Cecilia ” having 
taken leave some time before in antici- 
pation of dancing. 

Looking very wan, Felix was reclin- 


ing on the end of a sofa, while Amy 
fanned him. He glanced up with a smile 
when Marchmont approached, drank the 
water, but declined the wine. 

“I did not faint,” he said. “I was 
only tired, and Amy was frightened. I 
suppose I am not well. I am a little 
feverish, and my throat is sore ; but I 
will ask papa to take me home, and I 
shall be all right when I get to bed.” 

“ I am afraid you have over-exerted 
yourself,” said Marchmont, taking one of 
the small, burning hands. 

I suppose I have,” the boy answered, 
languidly. 

The glee ended at this moment, and 
the performers, together with Mr. Rey- 
nolds, entered the room. 

As soon as the latter caught a glimpse 
of Felix’s face, he hurried forward, too 
anxious to notice Marchmont’s presence. 

“ I was afraid it would be too much 
for you,” he said, after the matter had 
been explained. “ You must go home at 
once. — Amy, get your wraps. I will go 
and see about the carriage.” 

Amy’s countenance fell so abjectly at 
this, that Felix interposed. 

“Please don’t make Amy go, papa, 
because I am obliged to do so,” he said. 
“ It will be too hard I Let her stay and 
see the dancing.” 

“ She can’t stay by herself,” said Mr. 
Reynolds, impatiently ; “ and there is no- 
body with whom I can leave her.” 

Marchmont had fallen back, since he 
knew that to intrude himself on Mr. Rey- 
nolds’s attention would seal Amy’s fate, 
as far as immediate departure was con- 
cerned ; but some one unexpectedly en- 
tered, and heard Mr. Reynolds’s last 
words. 

“ What is that? ” said a genial voice. 
“ Do you want some one to look after 
this brilliant young debutante! Can I 
fill the position ? It is true I am not ex- 
actly a chaperon^ but I will see that no 
harm befalls her, and I’ll take her safely 
home, if that will do.” 

“Oh, thank you, Mr. TraffordI ” said 


88 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


Amy, gratefully. “ I am sure papa will 
trust me with you.” 

“ Of course,” said papa, to whom at 
this moment she was of the least possi- 
ble importance, “ if Mr. Trafford will be 
kind enough to look after you, I shall be 
obliged to him. — Felix, my boy. I’ll see 
about the carriage, and then we’ll go.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

“l HAVE LIVED AND LOVED.” 

“ Peat don’t give yourself any trouble 
about taking care of me, Mr. Trafford,” 
said Amy, with an earnestness which it is 
to be hoped was disinterested. “ I know 
you want to play whist or something of 
the sort, so if you will leave me in the 
ballroom, I shall amuse myself very well 
looking on at the dancing.” 

“You expect to do something more 
than look on, I am sure,” said Mr. Traf- 
ford, smiling. 

“ I am afraid not,” she answered, with 
a slight sigh. 

This conversation occurred after Mr. i 
Reynolds and Felix had taken their de- 
parture ; and Mr. Trafford, with his young 
charge, turned to w.ard the ballroom, where 
the opening quadrille was being formed. 

“ Oh, how delightful ! ” exclaimed 
Amy, with an ecstasy which amused her 
companion, when the whole bright scene 
burst on her — a scene so common, yet to 
her so novel, and so entirely the realiza- 
tion of many dreams. 

“Delightful, eh!” said the middle- 
aged man. “ \Yell, it does not strike me 
altogether in that light. Dancing must 
be rather warm work to-night, I think — 
nevertheless, my dear, I am sorry for 
your sake that my dancing days are over.” 

“Oh,” said Amy, disparagingly, “I 
should not think it would suit you at all. 
One needs to be young and active to enjoy 
dancing. I hope somebody will ask me ! ” 
she went on, most sincerely. “I never 


had a chance before to dance in a real 
ballroom, and what charming music ! ” 

“ Of course somebody must ask you,” 
said Mr. Trafford, looking round as if to 
see whom he could collar and compel to 
this act of social civility. 

Fate at this moment interposed kindly 
in Amy’s behalf, and spared him the 
necessity of any such stringent measure. 
Two sets had been formed on the floor, 
and one more couple was needed to fill 
out the second. 

It was imperatively necessary that 
this deficiency should be supplied, and an 
unemployed young gentleman near by 
was called upon to get a partner and 
come to the rescue. 

He glanced round vaguely in search 
of that article, and saw the nymph -like 
girl by Mr. Trafford’s side. Being a Ce- 
cilian, he knew who she was, and felt no 
hesitation in addressing her; so, saying 
quickly, “ Miss Amy do you dance ? May 
I have the pleasure? ” Amy found her- 
self placed in position ; the next moment 
the music began, the bows were made, 
and she was absolutely dancing at a “ real 
ball.” 

For a little while the exhilaration con- 
sequent upon this fact, and the attention 
she felt it necessary. to bestow on the 
faces and toilets round, made her forget 
to wonder where Marchmont was; but 
this preoccupation did not last very long, 
and in the first interval she glanced round 
the room for him. So far as she could 
ascertain, he was not to be seen, either 
among the dancers or the spectators. 

Miss Waldron she soon singled out. 
The young heiress was dancing in the 
next set, and looking magnificently hand- 
some in amber silk, with diamonds flash- 
ing on her neck and arms and in her dark 
hair. 

Amy sighed as she looked at the 
queenly figure — a sigh which did not pro- 
ceed from envy so much as from a sad 
realization that this woman was her rival. 
She seemed to feel her own insignificance 
as she had never felt it before, under the 


“I HAVE LIVED AND LOVED.” 


shadow of the prosperity which was em- 
bodied in everything around her. 

A vague sense of the wildness of her 
folly came to her. How could she dream 
that a man of the world like Marchmont 
would turn away from all that Beatrix 
Waldron offered, for her sake? 

The quadrille over, her partner de- 
posited her in a chair, bowed, and went 
away, feeling no obligation to bestow any 
further civility upon a person of such 
small importance. 

So the girl sat alone, and looked with 
dreamy eyes at the figures revolving be- 
fore her like colors in a kaleidoscope. As 
the hum of voices and laughter fell on 
her ear, a consciousness of isolation began 
to oppress her. Mr. Tratford had van- 
ished, and there was still no sign of 
Marchmont, while no one else noticed 
her presence in the least. 

“I had better have gone home with 
papa and Felix,” she thought, a little 
ruefully. 

But these melancholy sensations were 
scattered like mists by the sun when the 
musicians began to play the delicious 
melody of a Strauss waltz, and a well- 
known voice said in her ear : 

Cherie^ will you dance ? ” 

“ Oh, you have come at last ! ” she 
said, turning, with delight* involuntarily 
expressed by eye, lip, and cheek. “ I 
thought I should not see you again — and 
yet I don’t know why I should have been 
surprised at she added, quickly, re- 

membering his neglect during the past few 
days. 

“ You' know perfectly well why you 
would have had reason to be surprised at 
that,” Marchmont answered, with a smile. 
“I have a great deal to say to you, and I 
shall make an opportunity to say it pres- 
ently; but let us have our waltz first. 
AUonsf'^ 

It was like a dream to Amy when, a 
minute later, they were floating over the 
polished floor to strains that might have 
made a statue dance. 

The golden minutes of life are very | 


89 

I fleet, but she grasped a few of them while 
the blissful dance lasted. 

Marchmont’s choice of a partner ex- 
cited a little surprise and comment among 
his friends and acquaintances. That one 
so fastidious and supercilious should, out 
of'a whole “ rose-bud garden of girls,” se- 
lect Amy Reynolds, appeared remarkable 
to those who knew nothing of what had 
gone before ; but to those who read his 
conduct by the light of past events the 
simple act seemed very much one of de- 
fiance. 

So it appeared to Mrs. Lathrop, who 
lowered her eye-glass with an air that ex- 
pressed distinctly, “ After this, we may 
expect anything! ” • 

Florence paused to whisper : 

“ I am afraid Brian and Beatrix have 
had some disagreement, mamma. Do 
you notice how they avoid each other? ” 

“ It is fortunately a matter of no im- 
portance to said Mrs. Lathrop, with 
dignity. “Your cousin must attend to 
his own affairs.” 

The cousin thus severely abjured was 
attending to his own affairs with great 
satisfaction to himself and Amy. 

He had acted on an impulse — which 
was something very rare with him — in 
asking her to dance ; but he could not 
regret it as he clasped the lissome form 
close to him in the circling whirl of the 
waltz. Episodes of flirtation were so 
common in his life, that it amazed him 
to feel how loyal his fancy was to Amy. 

“ There is a piquant charm about her,” 
he thought, “ which no doubt accounts 
for it.” 

Whatever accounted for it, the fact 
remained that this girl, in her poverty 
and insignificance, possessed an attraction 
for him which older, fairer, richer women 
had failed to exert. 

They w'altzed, with one or two short 
pauses for rest, until the music ceased. 
Then Marchmont said, abruptly : 

“ Let us find some cooler place ; the 
heat and glare here are intolerable.” 

If he had proposed to find a furnace. 


90 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


Amy would hardly have dissented, so de- 
lightful was the mere consciousness of 
being with him again ; but she had cer- 
tainly no objection to being led from the 
ballroom to the delightful coolness and 
semi-darkness of the outer world. 

As they passed through one of the 
open windows they saw that many others, 
like themselves, had sought the grounds. 
By the light of the lamps gleaming in 
every direction figures in groups and pairs 
were to be seen sauntering to and fro, 
now visible, then passing into sudden 
eclipse with a pretty, shifting eflfect. 

Marchmont muttered a malediction on 
the illumination. 

“ What an absurd idea to light up trees 
and shrubs ! ” he said. “ I wonder if no 
spot has escaped the old general’s rage for 
decoration ? ” 

“The cedars are not lighted,” said 
Amy. “ Can we not sit under them ? ” 

“We can, and we will,” he answered, 
leading her toward them. 

It was by Miss Waldron’s special re- 
quest that the cedars had been spared the 
“ rage for decoration,” and it chanced 
that she was sitting under them, talking 
earnestly to Archer, when Marchmont 
and Amy approached. 

There were two rustic seats — each 
capable of holding two persons — placed 
so that the triple trunk of the group of 
cedars separated them, while the low- 
drooping boughs overshadowed both. 

Miss Waldron and her companion were 
seated on the bench farthest from the 
house, and a pause had occurred in their 
conversation, when they were both star- 
tled by hearing Amy’s bell-like tones ex- 
claim : 

“How pleasant this is! We can see 
everything without being seen, the shade 
is so deep here.” 

“ Yes, blessed be the hand that planted 
these patriarchs, and still more blessed the 
one which refrained from hanging their 
boughs with lamps 1 ” Marchmont an- 
swered. “ And now, Amy, i_iy darling, I 
have you for a little while all to myself.” 


“Oh, how cruel you have been!” 
cried Amy, with a quiver suggestive of 
tears in her voice. “ How could you stay 
away as you have done, and — and let me 
break my heart, without saying a word ? ” 
“Have you broken your heart?” he 
asked, in a caressing tone. “ You don’t 
look like it, my ‘pretty one. I thought 
to-night, when you appeared, that I had 
never known how lovely you are, and 
that is saying a great deal, since I knew 
very well. But to stay away was a mat- 
ter of necessity, ma belle. Could I go to 
your house, after your father had re- 
quested me to leave it ? Plainly, there 
was nothing to do but to bide my time — 
and see what I have gained by doing so ! ” 
“ And do you think it a reward ? ” 
asked Amy, wistfully. “ Are you really 
glad to be with me again ? ” 

“ Really glad ? I wish I could tell you 
how glad I am ! — for, in truth, I think you 
have bewitched me, you small witch ! 
Why else should I feel, like a lovesick 
boy, that my only pleasure here to-night 
is in your society ? ” 

“ Do you feel so ? ” asked Amy, still 
wistfully. “ But is it true, as I have been 
told,” she went on, faltering and hesitat- 
ing, “ that — that you are trying to marry 
Miss Waldron? I cannot believe it,” she 
cried, clasping’ her hands. “ I only ask 
because I hear it so often.” 

There was a moment’s pause — a pause 
which seemed long not only to Amy, but 
to the two spellbound listeners on the 
other side of the tree. 

Archer was in a horrible state of doubt. 
Should he take Beatrix away from what 
he felt was coming, or should he let her 
remain and hear with her own ears the 
evidence of her suitor’s treachery ? 

Beatrix, on her part, felt as if some 
overwhelming force was ‘laid upon her, 
compelling her to await Marchmont’s re- 
ply. By a strong effort she might have 
spoken, perhaps, but she was utterly un- 
able to move. 

Presently Marchmont spoke — slowly 
and gravely: “I am not sorry you have 


“I HAVE LIVED AND LOVED.” 


91 


asked that question,” he said. “I think 
it is best to tell you the truth frankly, and 
I am sure you will be reasonable with re- 
gard to it. I am, comparatively speaking, 
a poor man, my pretty Amy — that is, I 
am too poor for my position and the ob- 
jects I have set before myself in life. To 
achieve these objects — one of which is 
political distinction — I must have money ; 
and not only money, but certain other 
worldly advantages. These advantages I 
can best secure by a marriage with Miss 
IV aldron. Such a marriage will be purely 
of convenience, and will not alter the 
fact that I love you.” 

“ Come away ! ” said Archer, in a low, 
stern voice, and involuntarily he laid his 
hand as he spoke on Beatrix’s wrist. 

This is no place for you — come away ! ” 

“ One moment ! ” she answered in a 
whisper. “ Wait one moment ! ” 

If she wished to wait for Amy’s an- 
swer, it came quickly enough. That sen- 
sation which the French call a serrement 
du coeur held the girl for a moment in its 
strong grasp, but only for a moment. 
Despite her folly and credulity, she was 
not weak, and the strength of her nature 
asserted itself now. 

She drew herself resolutely out of the 
clasp of Marchmont’s arms, which had 
encircled her, and looked at him in the 
dim light, with her fair, young face set in 
harder lines than it had ever worn before. 

“ So Hugh was right! ” she said ; and 
how changed her voice sounded ! “ I have 
been a fool, and you have been only tri- 
fling with me! You sought me out, you 
professed to love me, you have made me 
the object of gossip and slander ; and now 
you tell me that you are going to marry 
another woman, and that I have only 
served to amuse you ! Perhaps I ought 
to have known that a man like you would 
not think of me in any other way ; but I 
have been a fool. I am a fool no longer, 
however! ” she cried out, with a sudden 
burst of passion. “ Don’t touch me, Mr. 
Marchmont; I am done with you for- 
ever ! ” 


“ I did not expect this, Amy,” said 
Marchmont, beginning to think he had 
made a great mistake in his explanation. 
“ I thought that, young as you are, you 
had more reason than most women, and 
that you loved me well enough to be un- 
selfish and understand my position.” 

•“‘I understand it perfectly,” replied 
Amy, with quivering lips ; “ you need 
not explain it any more. I have served 
your convenience in one way; Miss Wal- 
dron is to serve it in another. I am poor 
and obscure now,” she went on, with a 
dramatic intensity all the more effective 
for being the natural impulse and inspi- 
ration of the passion that possessed her ; 
“ but I feel, I Tcnow^ that I shall not always 
be so! and if ever it is in my power to 
return this upon you, Brian Marchmont, 
I will do so mercilessly ! ” 

“ Amy,” said Marchmont, coldly, “ this 
folly is absurd and disgusting. I had no 
idea you were so weak and ignorant. If 
you knew anything of the world, you 
would know that I cannot possibly act 
otherwise.” 

“I know something of the world,” 
said a sudden voice, the tones of which 
were cold as ice and keen as steel, “ and 
I am not aware that a man of the world 
is necessarily debarred from being a man 
of honor.” 

Marchmont sprang to his feet, for 
once in his life thoroughly dismayed and 
discomposed. Before him stood a stately 
figure, on which a stream of light from 
the windows of the ballroom fell, show- 
ing the clear-cut, scornful face turned full 
upon him. 

“ Beatrix ! ” he gasped. 

“ Miss Waldron, if you please,” Be- 
atrix answered, in the same calm, cold 
tones. “I have never given you the right 
to call me anything else, and you may be 
assured that I never shall do so. When 
you did me the honor of offering yourself 
to me some weeks ago, I believe I told 
you that I wished to be certain respect- 
ing the man I married. That question is 
settled with regard to you, Mr. March- 


92 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


mont ; I have tested you thoroughly, and 
I have found you devoid of honor, devoid 
of truth, devoid even of that principle 
which men call common honesty.” 

Marchmont threw his shoulders and 
his head haughtily back. With all his 
faults he was no coward, and, recognizing 
the fact that his cause was hopelessly lost 
with Beatrix Waldron, he was ready to 
make a retreat in good order. 

“ It is very well known,” he said, 
“ that women have an impunity in offer- 
ing insults which is not allowed to men ; 
hut I hardly fancied Miss Waldron would 
avail herself of it, or that she would feel 
no hesitation in acknowledging herself an 
eavesdropper.” 

“ I have no apology to make for being 
here,” said Miss Waldron, while Archer 
stepped quickly forward from the shade 
where he had lingered and placed himself 
by her side. “ I am glad, indeed, that I 
was here when you came ; what I have 
overheard has given me no new infor- 
mation with regard to you, hut it has made 
me think better of this poor girl. — You 
have spoken in a manner that does you 
credit,” she said, turning to Amy. “ In 
order to make you further understand 
what this man is, let me tell you that one 
word from him would have removed all 
suspicion from Hugh Dinsmore with re- 
gard to the loss of the miniature, which 
has caused so much trouble. Not content 
wuth not speaking this word, he has de- 
liberately tried to throw suspicion on the 
hoy whom he knew to be innocent. — You 
wonder, perhaps, how I gained this 
knowledge ? ” she said, addressing March- 
mont, whom amazement rendered speech- 
less. “ You thought yourself alone in 
Mr. Reynolds’s parlor when you took the 
miniature from Oliver; but Mr. Trafford 
was there before you went in. He heard 
everything ; and, when you dropped the 
picture in searching for your hat, he took 
it and kept it, wishing to see if you would 
be honorable enough to avow your share 
in the matter. Returning to Edgerton 
after an absence of eight days, he found 


that you had not spoken, and so he brought 
the picture to me.” 

As her clear, incisive tones ceased, 
silence fell. Never in all his life had 
Brian Marchmont occupied such a posi- 
tion before — one so hopeless of explana- 
tion, so unutterably humiliating. The 
blood surged in his veins like fire, while 
mortification and rage fairly choked him. 

He would fain have spoken, but for the 
first and last time in his life the very 
power of language seemed stricken from 
him, and it was Miss Waldron’s voice 
which broke the silence again. 

“ I could go into further details, but 
it is not worth while. I have said enough 
to show that I understand everything: 
how you have amused yourself with this 
child, while trying to marry me, ‘purely 
for convenience,’ and how false you have 
been even to that conventional honor 
which worldly men respect. Our ac- 
quaintance ends here and now. — Amy, 
come with me.” 

As she extended her hand and laid it 
on the girl’s arm, drawing her gently but 
firmly away, Marchmont spoke hoarsely : 

“ I decline to be put on my defense, 
or to answer the charges you have brought 
against me, in the presence of others ; 
but, if I may speak to you alone — ” 

She turned on him with a flash of pas- 
sion. 

“ I will never willingly speak to you 
again, as long as we both live! ” she said. 
“ Understand that ! I am done with you, 
and I thank God that I never — not for one 
moment — loved you. — Come, Amy.” 

In her preoccupation she forgot Arch- 
er, and, since she said nothing to him, he 
hesitated to accompany her when she 
turned, and, taking Amy with her, swept 
away — a more queenly woman than ever, 
in the majesty of her pride and indigna- 
tion — a woman whom any man might 
have hated to lose. 

Though she forgot him. Archer was 
about to follow her, when Marchmont — 
feeling, with a sense of relief, that here 
at least was some one whom he could at- 


“I HAVE LIVED AND LOVED.’ 


93 


tack — moved forward a step and con- 
fronted him. 

“ Miss Waldron is a woman,” he said, 
“ and, as I remarked, has therefore a cer- 
tain impunity in offering insult, but you 
are a man, and I wish to know by what 
right you have ventured to spy upon my 
conduct, to inteifere with my affairs, and 
to play the eavesdropper to-night ? ” 

“You can gain nothing by quarreling 
with me, Mr. Marchmont,” replied Arch- 
er, with contemptuous coolness. “ You 
must be aware that I have not spied upon 
your conduct, interfered with your affairs, 
or intentionally played the part of an 
eavesdropper to-night.” 

“You are a liar!” said Marchmont, 
and lifted his hand. 

The other caught it in a grasp like 
iron. 

“That is enough,” he said. “It is 
very natural that you should not know 
what you are doing now ; but if — when 
you are sane to-morrow — you still desire 
to hold me accountable for the part I 
have taken in Miss Waldron’s affairs, you 
know where I am to be found. Good- 
evening.” 

He loosed his grasp on Marchmont’s 
arm as he spoke, and, turning on his heel, 
walked deliberately away. 

The other might not have allowed this 
but for the fact that he could not have 
detained him without creating a scene — 
which is something that, even in mortal 
extremity, no well-bred man desires to 
do. 

The grounds were still full of people, 
though the music of a quadrille was peal- 
ing out from the ballroom. On a warm 
May night, coolness, fragrance, and unlim- 
ited opportunities for flirtation, seemed 
to the youthful mind even more desirable 
than dancing. 

Nevertheless, there were plenty of 
dancers “ dancuag in tune ” when Archer, 
who had little fancy for ballrooms, ap- 
proached the house. 

Some rather trite reflections occurred 
to him, as they would have been apt to 


occur to any one, on the different phases 
of human life which often come so sharp- 
ly in contact — the bright and dark, the 
tragedy and comedy, the earnestness and 
frivolity, discordant elements that elbow 
each other constantly. 

He felt profoundly grateful that Bea- 
trix Waldron was saved from the marriage 
which had threatened her happiness ; but 
he wondered, with something of a pang, 
how much truth there was in those last 
words she had uttered — those words 
which declared that she had never for 
a moment loved Marchmont. Pride 
would have nerved her to say that, he 
thought; but was it, could it be, strictly 
true? 

He might have believed it if he could 
have seen Beatrix, and realized that her 
composure was no mere mask, but an in- 
herent fact. When she first discovered 
Marchmont’s perfidy, she had been moved 
by it, as few women under the circum- 
stances could have failed to be moved — 
but that time was past. What she had 
heard to-night had been but a confirma- 
tion of what she had heard before, and 
therefore its effect had been transitory. 
It was of Amy she thought now, and 
she led the girl straight to her own apart- 
ment. 

“ You can be quiet here and recover 
yourself,” she said, not ungently; “but 
believe me the best means of recovery 
will be to remember that the man with 
whom you have fancied yourself in love 
is not worth a thought — much less a tear. 
Mr. Trafford will tell you hereafter the 
whole story of the miniature. I tell you 
that Brian Marchmont has acted in the 
most dishonorable manner, both to you 
and to me. He has made love to you be- 
cause you amused him; he has tried to 
marry me because I am rich. Let us put 
him out of our lives to-night, and never 
think of him again.” 

Amy looked up with something in her 
glance which the other did not exactly 
understand. Her face was perfectly calm, 
though white as marble, but her eyes were 


94 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


dilated and full of an expression difficult I 
to analyze, impossible to describe. 

“ That may be easy to you,” she an- 
swered, quietly, “because you said, out 
yonder, that you never loved him. I did. 
And one can’t forget love in a minute — 
can one ? I hate him — oh, yes, I hate him 
far more than you can, for he has not 
made a plaything of your heart. I will 
never forgive him — never as long as I 
live — and, if I ever have the power, I will 
pay my debt to him ; but, all the same, 

I am obliged to suffer now, for I loved 
him ! ” 

“ Contempt is better and safer than 
hatred, my dear,” said Miss Waldron. 

Again the strange, brilliant eyes — un- 
dimmed by a tear — looked up at her. 

“Contempt will do for you,” she 
said, “ but / must hate — because I have 
loved.” 

The elder woman was silent — in fact, 
she felt suddenly and oddly startled. 
Amy’s manner was so unlike that of an 
ordinary girl of her age, her words were 
so different from those which might nat- 
urally have been expected from her lips, 
that Beatrix felt like one out of her reck- 
oning. She had looked for tears, prob- 
ably — for indignation, perhaps — but this 
calm assertion of love and hate altogether 
puzzled her. 

After a minute’s pause, she said : 

“ I must go down. Do you care to 
come with me, or will you stay here? ” 

“ I will stay here, thank you,” Amy 
answered, with the same immobile 
quiet. “Will you please tell Mr. Traf- 
ford to send for me when he wants 
to go ? ” 

Promising to do this. Miss Waldron 
went away, leaving the pretty, graceful 
figure alone in the luxuriously-fitted 
room. 

Even after the last echo of her foot- 
step ceased Amy sat motionless, listening 
to the gay strains of music floating up 
from below, looking through the wide- 
open casement out on the brilliant 
grounds and up at the blue, starry sky, 1 


I thinking — thinking — still thinking, of the 
sudden blow that had darkened all things 
for her. 


CHAPTER XYII. 

“the light in the dust lies dead.” 

Mr. Teaffoed, who had heard from 
Miss Waldron an account of what had 
occurred, was, like the latter, struck by 
the change in Amy when she came at his 
summons to go home. 

There were no signs of tears on the 
pale, fair young face ; there was no trace 
of agitation in the strangely composed, 
almost apathetic manner. 

“I am quite ready to go,” she said, 
indifferently, when he made a remark 
about taking her away so early. 

She did not even glance toward the 
ballroom, which had seemed to her a 
palace of delight so short a time before. 
She took his arm as if she had been three- 
score, and walked out of the festive 
house without a glance behind. 

As they drove away, she turned and 
said, with the same odd quiet: 

“ Will you tell me all about the min- 
iature that was lost ? I should like to 
hear the whole story. Papa will be 
sorry to know that Oliver was concerned 
in it.” 

“Oliver’s share in the matter was 
very slight,” said Mr. Trafford. “Do 
you really want to hear the story ? Well,” 
he added, partly to himself, “perhaps 
this is as good a time as any other. You 
must know, then, that, on the evening 
when the miniature was lost, I received 
a telegram summoning me away on busi- 
ness, and I decided to leave Edgerton 
that night. I had some final arrange- 
ments to make with your father about 
Felix, and, being uncert^m as to how long 
I might be detained, I walked over to his 
house in order to make them. Every one 
seemed out. The door stood open, but 
1 no one answered my summons ; so I en- 


“THE LIGHT IN THE DUST LIES DEAD. 


95 


tered the parlor, thinking that I would I 
wait until some one appeared. I had 
been there only a short time when I heard 
jour voice at the door. Marchmont was 
with you — ” 

“ Yes, I know,” she interrupted. 

Never mind that.” 

“ But it is on that that the story 
hinges,” said Mr. Trafford. “I did not 
listen to your conversation. On the con- 
trary, I retired to a corner and lay down 
on a sofa, to wait until the coast was 
clear. Presently you ran into the house 
and went up-stairs. A minute later 
Marchmont followed, stood in the hall 
for an instant looking round, and then 
entered the parlor. I lay quite still, so 
that he did not perceive me ; and, after 
wandering about a little, he sat down 
directly in front of the recess where I 
was. He had not been there more than 
a minute, when Oliver rushed into the 
parlor, calling for you. Marchmont an- 
swered that you were not there, and asked 
what he wanted. He replied that he had 
been to Dinsmore’s room, and had found 
a picture which he had brought to show 
you ‘as a good joke.’ Marchmont went 
to the window, looked at it, and then 
told Oliver to leave it with him. The 
boy at first refused to do this, but, when 
one of his associates called him, he hur- 
riedly gave it up, bidding the other ‘ show 
it to Amy, for Hugh’s sweetheart,’ and 
went away. Left alone, as he fancied, 
Marchmont laughed, and uttered a few 
words, of which I only remember the 
expression, ‘An- absolute stroTce of luck!' 
Then he slipped the miniature into his 
pocket, and came back to the place where 
he had been sitting.” 

Here Amy interposed. 

“I do not understand,” she said, 
“what you mean to imply. You surely 
cannot mean that a man like — like Mr. 
Marchmont meant to keep the picture ? ” I 

“ Not for its value,” answered Mr. 
Trafford ; “ but, for the purpose of annoy- 
ing Hugh Dinsmore, he certainly meant 
to keep it.” 


I “But why should he have wished to 
annoy Hugh ? ” 

“lam surprised that you need to ask 
that question ! ” answered Mr. Trafford, 
a little dryly. “You are not aware, then, 
that Dinsmore charged Marchmont some 
time before with trifiing with you, and 
making you the subject of injurious gos- 
sip, and by way of reward was knocked 
down and left senseless in the highway, 
where Archer found him some time later ? ” 

Amy’s small hands clasped together 
with painful force, but her voice was still 
firm and even when she answered, “No, 
I did not know it.” 

“ She has wonderful self-control for a 
woman — and so young a woman ! ” Mr. 
Trafford thought. — “ It is true, neverthe- 
less,” he said, aloud; “therefore the in- 
ference is, that Marchmont’s chief motive 
for acting as he has done was a desire to 
injure Dinsmore. In fact, there is no 
other motive which possibly explains his 
conduct. When he came back to the 
place where he had been sitting, it was 
to look for his hat ; in doing this the min- 
iature dropped from his pocket unob- 
served, and after he left the room I picked 
it up. A glance showed me its value, 
and, wondering a little how the matter 
would end if the picture mysteriously 
disappeared, I put it in my pocket and 
walked off. Two hours later I left Edg- 
erton. When I returned and heard of 
the loss of the miniature, I sent for Oliver, 
as you know, and asked the meaning of 
his silence. He confessed that he had 
been intimidated by Marchmont, and had 
held his tongue from fear of the conse- 
quences. Reassured on this point, he 
was willing enough to speak ; so I brought 
him and the picture to Miss Waldron, 
who sent at once for Dinsmore. 

Silence followed his last words. What 
Amy thought of the story, he did not 
I know — she uttered not a word; and a 
minute later the carriage drew up at Mr. 
Reynolds's door. 

Mr. Trafford dismissed it after he had 
1 assisted her to alight, and there was some- 


r 


96 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


thing very kindly in his manner as he led 
her up the steps and opened the door. In 
the passage a lamp was burning. He 
paused a moment to take the cold little 
hand in his, to look with pity into the 
white young face that in an hour had 
been robbed of its brightness and bloom. 

“ Good-night, my dear,” he said, gen- 
tly. “lam sorry that your triumph should 
have been overshadowed like this. I 
would have had it otherwise, if I could.” 

“My triumph,” repeated Amy, in the 
tone of one who vaguely recalls something 
forgotten. “ Oh ! — that does not matter ! 
Good-night, and thank you for taking 
care of me.” 

Neither face nor voice changed in its 
apathetic calm, while her hand slipped 
out of his like a bit of ice. He was 
obliged to go away, in order that she 
might fasten the door after him, but he 
did so with a sense of discomfort. 

“ Something out of the ordinary way, 
there ! ” he thought, as he found himself 
on the street, proceeding toward Mrs. 
Crenshaw’s. “ If she were not so young, 
I should understand it better. Despite 
her youth, I fear the blow has struck 
very deep. Poor, pretty little Amy! it 
is hardly fair to blame her for being a 
fool, since we are all fools, more or less, 
at times in our lives ! ” 

Amy having, meanwhile, barred the 
door, took the lamp and slowly went up- 
stairs. Her quietude was no mere mask 
lent by pride and courage ; she felt like 
one who had been stunned, and in whom 
sensation for a time was dead. When 
she entered her chamber, not. even the 
recollection of the excitement, the hope, 
the longing, with which she went forth 
from it, had power to move her. She 
laid aside the dress which she had put on 
with so much innocent vanity, and took 
the withered roses from her hair — all 
with the same apathy. In truth, she felt 
like one in a dream. Those vivid, terrible 
minutes under the cedars alone seemed 
real, and she did not lose the memory of 
them for an instant. 


After she had extinguished the light 
and crept to bed, her mind continued to 
go over the same thing with that madden- 
ing persistence which makes one some- 
times appreciate what the agony of mental 
derangement must be. Every look, every 
word, every accent, was recalled again and 
again. Even her short snatches of sleep 
brought no relief, for memory was then, 
if possible, more vivid. In these brief, 
troubled dreams, she lived over the wholo 
episode once more. 

At daylight she was roused from this 
broken, unrefreshing sleep by a knock at 
her door. “Who is there?” she asked, 
starting up. “ What is the matter ? ” 

“It is I, Amy,” her father replied. 
“Felix is ill, and I want you to go to him 
as quickly as possible. I am going for 
the doctor.” 

“ I will be there in a minute,” she an- 
swered, springing out of bed. 

Her head ached from excitement and 
loss of sleep, while her hands trembled 
so that she could scarcely dress ; but she 
managed to slip on something in the way 
of attire, and went to Felix’s room. 

A glance at the boy’s face was suffi- 
cient to tell her that he was very ill. His 
fever, which had been high all night, had 
abated somewhat and left a wan pallor 
behind ; the thin face looked thinner than 
ever, the great eyes were surrounded by 
dark-blue circles, and the lips were pale 
and dry. 

“lam sorry papa called you,” he said. 
“ There was no need, and you must be 
tired. I hope you had a pleasant time.” 

“I am not tired. 1 had rather be 
doing something,” she answered, evading 
a reply to his question. Then she laid 
her hand on his forehead, saying, “Does 
your head ache ? ” 

“Y"es; but it is my throat that trou- 
bles me,” he answered. “ I did not tell 
papa, but, day before yesterday, I went 
to see Harry Wilson, who has diphtheria. 
If I have that^ Amy, please don’t come 
round me, for you may take it.” 

“ It would not matter in the least if I 


“THE LIGHT IN THE DUST LIES DEAD.’ 


97 


did,” said Amy, who at this time would 
not have shrunk from the plague. “lam 
not afraid.” . 

When the doctor came, the first thing 
he did was to feel Felix’s pulse, the sec- 
ond to look at his throat. He had no 
sooner glanced into the latter, than the 
gravity that settled over his countenance 
showed his opinion of the case. He asked 
a few questions, then walked to the win- 
dow and took out his prescription-hook. 

Mr. Reynolds followed, and laid a ner- 
vous grasp on his arm. 

“Is it anything serious?” he asked, 
in a husky voice. “ The boy is often un- 
well; he is very nervous and delicate. 
I have not thought much of this illness.” 

“ It is very serious, I fear,” replied the 
doctor, gravely. “ Your son has the most 
malignant form of diphtheria. I will do 
my best, but I cannot conceal from you 
the fact that his situation is critical. The 
disease is very contagious, and I advise 
you to send the other children out of the 
house at once.” 

“ My God ! ” said Mr. Reynolds, turn- 
ing ghastly pale. 

The last words fell on his ear unheed- 
ed. What were the other children to 
him? He did not even give them a 
thought in comparison with Felix — Felix, 
his idol, his hope, his pride ! 

“ Call in other advice ! ” he said. “ Do 
anything — do everything ! You may take 
all that I am worth, if you will make Felix 
well ! ” 

“I shall do my best,” the doctor said, 
again, looking with compassion at the 
speaker. 

And so it happened that a trouble of 
the most real description laid its grasp on 
Amy, shaking her out of the self-absorp- 
tion which would otherwise have over- 
come her. 

In the terrible hours of watching and 
anxiety which followed by Felix’s bedside, 
she did not forget her own pain, nor lose 
the heavy, aching sense of the blow that 
had fallen upon her ; but she had no time 
to dwell upon it. Even in ordinary cases 


there is nothing which makes such a con- 
stant demand upon the attention as the 
duties of a sick-room, and here the fight 
between life and death was short and 
sharp. 

Very short, certainly; for, when the 
second morning dawned, the doctor plain- 
ly said, “ No hope,” and it was evident 
to the almost frantic father that Felix 
was sinking fast. 

Others came and went, but he did not 
stir from the bedside, and his face seemed 
to grow momently more and more hag- 
gard as he sat watching the dying boy, 
as if counting every painful, fiuttering 
breath. 

“ I shall not go to Germany after all, 
papa,” Felix whispered once. 

And Mr. Reynolds answered, passion- 
j ately: 

I “ You will — you must ! God will not 

I be so cruel as to take you from me.” 

Alas! such protests avail little when 
the unalterable decree has gone forth. 
Not to Germany, indeed, but to a far 
more distant country was the young trav- 
eler bound ; and, before the sun sank, his 
painful passage thither was over, and 
only the fair, cold shell of mortality was 
left behind. 

Those who saw Mr. Reynolds’s grief 
' were not likely ever to forget it. It is 
seldom that human sorrow is so intense, 
so passionate, so bitter. Usually the poig- 
nancy of the sharpest grief is in a measure 
tempered by that sense of the irrevocable 
to which humanity is forced to submit, 

' and against which rebellion is so absolutely 
hopeless. But in this instance there was 
not the faintest semblance of resignation. 
One or two people, who ventured to speak 
of such a thing to Mr. Reynolds, were 
instantly silenced by the fierce impatience 
with which he turned upon them. lie 
I had always possessed the high-strung, 
irritable temperament which is peculiar 
to musicians, and now grief and despair 
seemed to possess him like a consuming 
fire. He would not quit Felix’s body by 


98 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


day or night; and, since no one dare ap- 
proach him, the question of the funeral 
became a serious difficulty. 

The difficulty, however, was at last 
overcome by Mr. Trafford. He alone had 
courage to interfere — to say what must 
be done, and to make the necessary ar- ' 
rangements for laying away that placid 
figure which was, and yet was not, Felix. 
Mr. Reynolds submitted, and after this 
— especially after the funeral — a change 
came over him. His passionate despair 
gave place to a melancholy from which 
nothing had power to rouse him. He 
made no effort to resume the labor of his 
life; he took no interest in anything. 
His other children were objects of indif- 
ference to him. With Felix all the pur- 
poses of his life seemed to end. [ 

This did not last very long. Medical j 
science sternly refuses to recognize such ' 
a disease as “ heart-break ; ” so the doc- 
tors found some other cause to account 
for the fact that Mr. Reynolds’s life sud- 
denly snapped short, like a worn string. 
It was Hugh Diusmore who entered the 
parlor, a few days after Felix’s funeral, 
and found the musician sitting silent and 
motionless at the piano, with his face 
bowed upon the keyboard. Hugh hesi- 
tated for a moment, and then addressed 
him. There was no answer. He spoke 
again. Still no reply. Then he advanced, 
and, with a strange sense of awe and 
foreboding, touched the still figure — re- j 
coiling instantly with an involuntary cry. 

There could be no doubt of the Pres- 
ence which had entered before him. Sit- 
ting alone, with the instrument which 
was so closely associated with his dead 
boy, the heart-broken father had silently 
passed away forever. 

At the time this occurred, Amy was 
lying dangerously ill with diphtheria — 
which disease, as the doctor had antici- 
pated, she had taken from Felix. She 
was stricken down with it the day after 
the funeral, but her father had not paid 
the least attention to the fact. In vain 
Clara tried to awaken his anxiety, tliink- 


ing that any distraction of mind would be 
an advantage to him. If he heard, he did 
not heed her. What was Amy’s life or 
death to him after Felix was gone? 

Poor Amy also came very near going 
to join “ the vast majority beyond.” On 
the border-land of life and death she hov- 
ered for days ; and only the superb vital- 
ity of youth, the rallying-power of a 
strong constitution, saved her from sink- 
ing as Felix had sunk. 

It was at this critical period that her 
father’s death occurred. Every effort was 
made by Clara and the doctor, aided by 
Mr. Trafford, to keep the sad event from 
her knowledge, and they partially suc- 
ceeded. The worst was over, and she 
had slowly and languidly entered upon 
the road to health before she heard of 
this later bereavement. The intelligence 
came to her accidentally, as such intelli- 
gence often does. Mariette — of whom 
Mrs. Crenshaw had taken charge during 
all this time of trouble and grief — was 
the bearer of the sorrowful news. When 
the child was admitted for the first time 
to see her sister, Clara forgot to warn her 
not to mention her father’s death, and so 
it happened that she made some allusion 
to “poor papa,” which told Amy the 
truth — a truth, it may be added, which 
she partly suspected from her father’s 
absence, and from the manner in which 
her questions regarding him were evaded. 

Nevertheless, when she heard that 
her fears had not outrun reality, her heart 
I seemed to stand still, and a sense of 
[ deadly faintness rushed over her. But 
she did not faint ; she controlled herself 
by a strong effort, and beckoned the child 
nearer to her. 

“ Tell me the truth, Mariette — exactly 
the truth,” she said. “ Is papa dead ? ” 
Mariette’s great blue eyes opened wide 
and filled with tears. “O Amy,” she 
cried, in an awed tone, “ didn’t you know 
that? Papa’s been dead a week ! ” 

“ Dead ! ” repeated Amy, as if she 
could hardly grasp the terrible fact. Then 
she threw up her arms with a cry of an- 


THE LIGHT IN THE DUST LIES DEAD.’ 


99 


guish. “My God! I am indeed deso- 
late ! ” she said, and burst into passionate 
weeping. 

The immediate effect of this shock 
was prostration, but the remote effect 
was to hasten the girl’s recovery. Pre- 
vious to this she had not seemed to care 
whether she lived or died, and her listless 
indifference had greatly retarded her con- 
valescence. Now she became feverishly 
anxious to regain her health. 

“ Make me well — pray, make me well 
at once 1 ” she said, imploringly, to the 
doctor. “ A little while ago I wanted to 
die, but now I know that I cannot afford 
to do so. I must get well, to work for 
Mariette and the boys. They have no- 
body to depend on but me.” 

“You must be patient,” answered the 
doctor ; and, despite the callousness which 
was the result of his profession, he looked 
with A sense of compassion at the childish 
girl, who even in the depth of her deso- 
lation did not stand alone, but was bur- 
dened by others weaker than herself. 
“You have been very ill; you cannot 
recover in a day. Don’t let your mind 
be troubled. Leave the question of what 
you must do when you get well to your 
friends. You are too young to decide.” 

“lhave no friends,” she answered. 
“ There is nobody to decide but myself, 
and I have determined what I will do.” 

“You have at least one very kind 
friend,” said the doctor. “ That is Mr. 
Trafford.” 

“ I had forgotten him,” she said, quiet- 
ly. “ Yes, he is kind, but it is only the 
kindness of a stranger. He has nothing 
to do with my life.” 

Despite her anxiety, her recovery was 
slow; and during those long hours she 
lay for the most part with idle hands, 
gazing out of the open window at the 
green boughs forming a network against 
the blue sky — boughs in which the un- 
numbered sweet-voiced birds of the South 
sang constantly. 

“ How beautiful ! ” she exclaimed, one 
day, when a mocking-bird had been pour- 


, ing forth a tide of melody. “ I wonder 
if I can sing as well as that? I think I 
can. The doctor says I must not strain 
my throat ; but it is quite well now, and 
there is no reason why I should not sing.” 

“ Mrs. Crenshaw says she don’t expect 
you’ll ever be able to sing any more, 
Amy,” said Mariette, who was in the 
room. 

Amy started as if she had been struck. 
The idea of any injury to her voice had 
not occurred to her, and the suggestion 
was like a dart of fire. 

Her hand instinctively went to her 
throat. What if it should be so ? W as 
there any limit to the cruelty of Fate ? 

' Might not this power — her last plank in 
the midst of shipwreck — be taken from 
her, as everything else had been ? 

This thought was so appalling that 
she was literally unable to utter a word. 
Every hope and ambition for the future 
centred in her voice. If that was lost, 
or injured, what weapon was left her 
with which to fight the world ? 

“ O Heaven ! if my voice is lost, let 
me die! ” she exclaimed, in the agony of 
her fear ; but, fortunately for us, such 
prayers as these are seldom granted. 

The next day, unable to endure the 
torture any longer, she waited until Clara 
had put the room in order, placed her in 
a large chair before the window, where of 
late she had been able to sit, and had 
finally gone away ; then she clasped her 
white, thin hands tightly together, like 
one in the act of prayer, and opened her 
lips to sing. At first she failed to make a 
! sound, but saying to herself, “ I am ner- 
vous ; that is what is the matter ! ” she 
made another effort. 

The notes which she strove to utter 
came then, but so harsh, so fiat, so utterly 
unlike what they had ever been before, 
that she paused in dismay ; and at this 
moment the door opened, and Clara ush- 
ered the doctor in. 

He was a little startled to see his pa- 
tient rise from her chair and advance 
toward him, looking more like a spirit 


LcfC. 


100 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


than a woman in her loose white drapery, 
with her great eyes shining out of her 
hollow face, and one hand grasping her 
throat. 

“ Tell me ! ” she cried out passionately. 

“ Has it gone forever ? — have I lost my 
voice? ” 

The doctor changed color, and glanced 
sternly at Clara. 

“I thought I told you not to let her 
sing! •’ he said. 

“ I didn’t know — ” Clara began, in 
seK- defense, when Amy interrupted : 

“ How could she prevent my singing, 
if I chose to do so? — and I did choose to 
test my voice. I can do nothing with 
it now — but will it recover its power? 
Don’t trifle with me ! ” she cried, as she 
saw hesitation on his face. “I want the 
truth, and I — I am strong enough to bear 
it.” 

“ I am not sure of that,” said the 
doctor, gravely. “ This excitement is too 
much for you, I am sure. Sit down, i 
Let me feel your pulse.” i 

Amy sank again into her chair, because 
she was unable to stand, but she drew 
her wrist impatiently away from him. 

“ I care for nothing but my voice,” 
she said. “ Nothing else matters. Tell 
me the truth about that ! ” | 

“ My poor child, I fear that your voice 
will never again be what it has been,” he 
answered, with sincere compassion in his 
tones. “I would have spared you the j 
knowledge of this until you were stronger, ' 
but since you insist — ” 

He stopped, for her face was growing 
whiter under his gaze, her eyes dilating 
with an expression w'hich he never forgot. | 

“ Do you mean,” she said, “that I can 
never sing in public ? ” 

“ It is not likely that you will ever be 
able to do so,” he replied, feeling that he 
had no right to withhold the truth from 
one who so earnestly desired to know it. 

“ The organs of your throat are, I fear, 
hopelessly injured.” 

She looked at him for one moment 
with a wild appeal in her eyes against 


certainty. Then her head sank back, her 
lids fell. Unconsciousness followed this 
last, crushing blow. 


CHAPTER XYIII. 

“ I WILL HOLD YOUE HAND BUT AS LONG 
AS ALL MAY.” 

When Brian Marchmont left the 
grounds of Oedarwood on the night of 
the fete^ he was tingling in every nerve 
with that sense of defeat and mortiflca- 
tion which of all sensations is the most 
intolerable to a man of his stamp. Added 
to this, he was so bitterly wroth with the 
folly which had placed him in such a 
position, that for the first time in his life 
he turned savagely upon himself. 

“I deserve it all,” he thought, “for 
the absolute insanity of which I have 
been guilty ! If I were twenty, the thing 
would bear a different aspect, but at my 
age, with my knowledge of the world, my 
clearly-defined objects in life, to peril and 
lose so much for the sake of an insignifi-- 
cant girl, there is no excuse for me — none ! 
By Heaven ! I could almost sentence my- 
self to a strait-waistcoat, when I think of 
the madness with which I have walked 
into the net spread by that fellow Archer. 
I know that he has been spying upon me 
from the first. I now feel sure that Amy 
was right, that evening on the creek, 
when she said the man on the opposite 
bank was he. Then, that infernal minia- 
ture — how can I possibly put the facts he 
has distorted in their true light ? It may 
be impossible to do so ; but, at least, he 
shall pay dearly for his interference.” 

Nor was this any vaporing threat, any 
idle menace born of anger. Sybarite and 
epicurean though Marchmont was, these 
qualities lay merely on the surface, while 
underneath was a nature possessing strong 
passions, and capable of resolute and de- 
termined action when those passions were 
roused. 

The next morning he amazed Edward 


“I WILL HOLD YOUR HAND BUT AS LONG AS ALL MAY.’ 


101 


Lathrop by requesting him to bear a 
challenge to Archer. That young gen- 
tleman took the cigar he was smoking 
from his lips, and stared at his cousin as 
if he thought sudden lunacy had over- 
taken him. 

“Archer!” he repeated. “Why, 
there isn’t a more inoffensive fellow than j 
Archer in existence! You are surely not 
in earnest, Brian? ” 

“ Am I likely to jest on such a sub- 
ject? ” asked Marchmont, with stern im- 
patience. “ Inoffensive ! A snake may 
be inoffensive till it turns and strikes one ; 
but no wise man will spare it after that.” 

“ At least,” said the other, more grave- 
ly, “you cannot expect me to act for you 
unless you give me some idea of the cause 
of the difficulty.” 

“ That is easily given,” answered 
Marchmont. “ The fellow has made him- 
self a spy upon my conduct for some time 
past — has interfered in the most insolent 
manner in my affairs — and has finally 
been successful in producing an estrange- 
ment between Miss Waldron and myself.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Lathrop. He began 
to comprehend the gravity of the situa- 
tion, and his own countenance reflected 
it. “ I should not have suspected Archer 
of such a thing,” he said. “I thought 
him a man of honor. Are you sure there 
is no mistake ? ” 

“ There is no possible room for mis- 
take,” replied Marchmont. “ The object 
he has in view is to marry Miss Waldron ; 

I knew that the first time I ever saw 
him, but it is an object he shall not 
achieve. Unfortunately, it is out of my 
power to fight with such weapons as he 
has used, but pistols are no bad substi- 
tute.” 

“ By Jove! ” said Lathrop, lifting his 
hand and pulling his mustache. 

The tone in which Marchmont uttered 
the last words, and the flash like blue 
steel from his eyes which accompanied 
them, made it unmistakably plain that | 
affairs were very serious indeed. No I 
man entertained a more rooted aversion I 


to unpleasant things than Lathrop, and 
up to this point in his career he had man- 
aged to keep clear of them ; but he felt 
that he could not refuse to stand by his 
cousin, however disagreeable the conse- 
quences might be. 

“I am sorry, very sorry, for this,” he 
I said, presently ; “ but, of course, I will 
go to Archer if * you insist upon it. Per- 
haps he may be able to make some ex- 
planation, to offer 'sorne apology — ” 

“ There is no possibility of such a 
thing,” Marchmont interrupted. “ I don’t 
think he is likely to refuse to fight. If 
he does, I shall know how to deal with 
him. Last night he said that, if I desired 
to hold him to account, I knew where he 
was to be found.” 

“If he said that^ he 'is not likely to 
refuse to fight. But it is a most unfor- 
tunate affair, and will cause an immense 
amount of talk,” said Lathrop, who now 
devoutly wished that Marchmont was 
some other man’s cousin and guest. 

Notwithstanding his r'eluctance, he 
bore the challenge to Archer, who re- 
ceived it without surprise. 

“Mr. Marchmont would be wiser if 
he accepted the consequences of his con- 
duct without calling attention to it,” he 
said, quietly ; “ but that is altogether his 
own affair. If he chooses to hold me 
accountable for the part I have played, I 
am willing to afford him satisfaction.” 

“ I know only what my cousin has 
told me of the matter,” said Lathrop, 
who began to feel more and more that he . 
was engaged in a very unpleasant thing ; 
“ but from my personal regard for your 
character, Mr. Archer, I hoped that some 
amicable settlement might be made.” 

“ I regret that no proposal of the kind 
can come from me,” said Archer. “Mr. 
Marchmont asserts that I have interfered 
in his private affairs in an unjustifiable 
manner. I acknowledge the fact of in- 
terference, but hold that every man is 
I justified in endeavoring to unmask a scoun- 
i drel. I have, however, no intention of 
I shirking the consequences of my acts. If 


102 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


Mr. Marclimont wishes to fight, I am 
ready to meet him when and wherever he 
likes.” 

“You are a very impracticable and 
belligerent pair! ” said Lathrop, in a tone 
of disgusted annoyance. “ I have always 
believed that, if the principals were reason- 
able, such affairs as this could be arranged 
without difficulty ; but, when the princi- 
pals are not reasonable, there is evidently 
nothing to be done but' to load the pistols. 
Of course, you will refer me to some 
friend, Mr. Archer ? ” 

“I have not thought of it,” replied 
Archer; “but I will endeavor to find 
some one to fill the position, and send him 
to you in the course of a few hours.” 

In the course of a few hours Mr. Arch- 
er’s friend waited upon Mr. Lathrop, 
and all details of the affair were settled. 

The meeting was arranged to take 
place the next morning, at a secluded 
place about a mile beyond the outskirts 
of Edgerton, and both parties agreed to 
keep the matter as quiet as possible. 

For once this was done. No hint or 
rumor that a duel was impending electri- 
fied Edgerton as the day wore on — that 
day which Amy spent in watching by 
Felix’s bedside; which Miss Waldron 
spent in her chamber at Cedar wood, with 
what her maid reported to be a “ splitting 
headache ; ” which Marchmont spent in 
the Lathrop smoking-room, with a French 
novel for a companion ; and which Arch- 
er, with a distinct knowledge of the dan- 
ger before him, spent in his usual tread- 
mill of business. 

As evening began to close he threw 
aside the pen with which he had been oc- 
cupied all day, and, leaning back in his 
chair, looked out of the window at which 
he sat. 

Although his office was in the midst 
of buildings, it chanced that this window 
commanded a glimpse of the sky — a 
glimpse that was often like a vesper to him 
at the end of a weary day. 

Just now the sky was flushed with the 
divinest beauties of sunset. Heaven it- 


self seemed opening where the splendor 
burned in masses of saffron and rose, of 
violet and vivid gold. Green boughs, 
drooping with heavy foliage, interlaced 
across it, but the glory shone through, 
and fell on the worn face of the young 
man, whose quiet, rather sombre eyes 
were turned toward it. Was he thinking 
whether he should ever look on it again ? 
If so, he gave no sign of such a thought ; 
but, hearing a clock in the neighborhood 
strike seven, he rose, put away his papers, 
locked his safe, and went out. 

The evening was rarely beautiful — one 
of those lovely, fragrant evenings of May, 
when the earth is so fair that day seems 
loath to leave it ; and, as Archer felt tho 
delicious sweetness and softness of tho 
air on his face, almost unconsciously he 
turned his steps in the direction of Cedar- 
wood. 

“I shall not go in,” he thought in 
apology for this act of weakness. “I 
shall only look at the place, and if possi- 
ble catch a glimpse of her — for the last 
time, perhaps.” 

So, leaving the dusty streets behind, 
he took his way over the dewy, sweet- 
smelling fields which spread out like green 
velvet in the twilight, facing the pomp of 
sunset now burning faint and fainter in 
the far west, while a golden planet shone 
in the softly-tinted sky above. 

When he reached the small gate giv- 
ing admittance to Cedarwood, he paused, 
and, resting one arm on it, stood for sev- 
eral minutes motionless. Roses were 
clustering above and around him, exhal- 
ing their sweet incense on the air; a 
mocking-bird was singing in an oak-tree 
near by, as if it would fain ravish the 
world with melody ; but he needed 
neither perfume nor full-throated song. 
His eyes swept over the lawn to where 
the house stood, with lights gleaming 
here and there from its wide-open doors 
and windows. 

Surely her figure would pass across 
one of these windows — surely his passion- 
ate desire to obtain a glimpse — only a 


I WILL HOLD YOUR HAND BUT AS LONG AS ALL MAY.” 


103 


glimpse — of her, would be gratified I 
This desire seemed to grow in strength 
from his very nearness ; so . that he was 
forced to constrain himself to resist the 
impulse to go forward at all cost and see 
her, look into her eyes, touch her liand 
once more — for the last time, perhaps. 

He had hared his head to the soft 
breeze blowing out of the golden west ; 
and as he stood framed by the roses, with 
his yearning gaze bent on the house, the 
manly figure, the strong, earnest face, 
made a picture worth noting — worth ad- 
miring, indeed. 

Beatrix Waldron thought so, as, in 
the course of an idle stroll around the 
lawn, she suddenly came in sight of the 
wicket- gate and paused, surprised by the 
appearance of Archer. At first she 
thought that he was simply on his way 
to the house ; but when ’she saw the im- 
mobility of his attitude, and observed the 
intent, unchanging gaze, surprise merged 
into curiosity. She lingered in the shade, 
watching him, for some time ; but he did 
not move, and she was obliged at last to 
come forward. 

“ Good-evening, Mr. Archer,” she 
said, and the unexpected sound of the 
full, rich voice made him start. “May I 
ask what there is in the appearance of 
Cedarwood which seems to fascinate and 
yet repel you? I have been watching 
you for several minutes, and you have 
not stirred an inch, or taken your eyes 
once from the house.” 

“ Is it possible you have been watch- 
ing me ? ” asked Archer, coloring. “ It 
is a little odd that I should not have felt 
it ; there is usually so much magnetism 
in the gaze.” 

“Y"ou were so absorbed in thought, 
that even magnetism was unable to aflfect 
you. I should not think you would be 
a good subject for mesmerism.” 

“ I am very sure I should not,” he an- 
swered, looking at her with a sense of 
pleasure, the expression of which he vain- 
ly strove to repress froni his tone and 
glance. Was it because he thought that 


he might never see her face again, that 
it appeared to him so fair just now? 
“ Blessed be God who has made beautiful 
women,” say the Arabs, and he could 
have echoed the benediction, as Beatrix 
stood in the lovely half-light of the gloam- 
ing, her graceful figure outlined by the 
dusky shade from which she had emerged, 
her stately head bare, her face more 
cameo-like than ever in its paleness — that 
soft brunette paleness which contrasts so 
effectively with dark eyes and hair. 

“ Have you come to inquire how we 
have survived the affair of last night?” 
she asked. “ I have had a severe head- 
ache all day ; but after dinner I came 
out to see if the fresh air would not help 
me, and it has done so. I don’t want to 
be ungrateful to papa, but I hardly think 
I shall ever consent to give another ball.” 

“ I should not imagine that there was 
any pleasure in it,” he said, not thinking 
at all of what he was saying — only think- 
ing of her, and of the difficulty of tearing 
himself away, now that he had obtained 
even more than the glimpse he had de- 
sired. 

Feeling the abstraction of his manner, 
she glanced at him in some surprise. 

“ Are you not coming in? ” she asked. 
“Papa is always glad to see you, and I — 
though I am very stupid — I can at least 
give you a cup of coffee.” 

“ You are very kind,” he said, hesita- 
tingly ; “ but I did not mean to come in. 
I was sure you would not feel like being 
annoyed by visitors to-night.” 

“Not by ordinary visitors,” she an- 
swered, with her peculiar frankness ; 
“but I consider you very much as ami 
de la mauon. Come and be bored,” she 
said, with a smile. “ I cannot allow you 
to stand and look over the gate and then 
go away.” 

The invitation of^ her voice and man- 
ner was more than Archer could resist. 
“For the last time, perhaps,” he said to 
himself again, and opened the gate. 

They slowly strolled across the lawn, 
the incense of flowers and the sweet notea 


104 


AFTER MAXY DAYS. 


of birds making the twilight delicious, 
and entered the drawing-room through 
one of the windows. 

Here they found General Waldron, 
walking up and down with his hands be- 
hind his hack. 

“ Good-evening, Archer,” he said, 
brightening visibly. “ I am glad to see 
you. Beatrix, I have been waiting for you 
to come in and give me a cup of coffee.” 

“Mr. Archer detained me, papa,” said 
Beatrix. “I found him leaning over the 
gate, and it was some time before 1 could 
prevail upon him to advance any farther. 
But, considering the dew unwholesome, 
I thought it best to bring him in for a 
cup of coffee.” 

“Let us have it at once,” said the 
general, ringing the bell. 

The coffee was brought, and, having 
made Archer confess that he had not 
been to supper, Miss Waldron ordered 
some for him. 

The general joined in doing justice to 
this repast, while Beatrix sat by in a low 
easy-chair with her coffee-cup in her hand 
— an indolent, graceful figure, with one 
slender, arched foot uncovered by the 
flowing sweep of her drapery, and the 
light catching the whiteness of her throat, 
the glimmer of gold around her wrists, 
and a fragrant yellow rose drooping 
among the dark braids of her hair. 

As was natural under the circum- 
stances, they talked of the entertainment 
of the evening before, of the toilets and the 
flirtations, of the concert and its sucess. 

“Edgerton will some day be very 
proud of the fact that Amy Reynolds 
made her dehut here,” said Miss Waldron. 

“ She has a magnificent voice,” said 
Archer. “I had heard a good many ru- 
mors about it, but I paid little attention 
to them, knowing how prone to exagger- 
ation the popular judgment is.” 

“ I suppose lier father intends her for 
the stage,” said the general. 

“ Yes,” answered Beatrix. Then she 
added, with a sigh, “ Poor little Amy! ” 

“Is there any need to pity her?” 


asked the general, with some surprise. 
“A petted, popular prima-donna is one 
of the most enviable people in the world 
— as the world goes.” 

“ I am not sure of that,” said Beatrix; 
“ but I was not thinking of her public 
career when I spoke. I am sorry for her 
for other reasons.” 

“ She does not look as if she was an 
object for compassion in any way,” said 
General Waldron, recalling the Psyche- 
like figure, the radiant, triumph-flushed 
' face of the night before. 

Beatrix glanced at Archer, and, as 
their eyes met, the expression of his 
j brought a flush to her cheek. It was an 
earnest, interrogative expression, which 
she imagined that she understood, and 
which she resented a little. 

“How dare he imagine that I have 
suffered by the treachery of that man? ” 

I she thought ; and, rising, she moved away 
j to where the piano stood open, with its 
' ivory keyboard gleaming in the subdued 
I lamplight. 

I “Shall I sing for you, papa?” she 
said ; and, without waiting for an answer, 
she sat down and began one of the bal- 
lads that the general loved. 

I When it ended she found that Archer 
; had crossed the floor and was standing 
by her. 

“ T'ou misunderstood me,” he said, in 
a low voice. “ I saw that in your face. 
I was thinking something very different 
from what you suppose. I was wonder- 
I ing — since you are generous enough to 
! be sorry for that foolish girl — whether 
you would be- sorry for some one else 
under other circumstances.” 

“ You talk in enigmas,” she said, look- 
ing at her hands, which were modulating 
a succession of soft chords. “ Whether I 
was sorry or not, would depend upon 
how much sympathy or compassion ‘ some 
one else ’ deserved. I am sorry for that 
poor girl, foolish as she has been. I am 
sure she is suffering — and one can suffer 
very keenly at sixteen.” 

“Very superficially, as a rule; but 


I WILL HOLD YOUR HAND BUT AS LONG AS ALL MAY.’ 


105 


that does not matter. An aching finger 
is had, if one has never known anything 
worse.” 

“ And an aching heart is never matter 
for a sneer,” said she, glancing up at him. 

“ Heaven forbid that I should sneer at 
it ! ” he said, with an earnestness which 
impressed her. “ You surely did not think 
that I meant to do so ? I only thank God 
that it is not your heart which is aching,” 
he went on, quickly. “I was afraid — 
very much afraid — that you might care 
for that man enough to sufier from the 
knowledge of his treachery.” 

“Fortunately, my heart is not easily 
touched,” she said, still playing softly. 
“ I have been provoked with my insensi- 
bility once or twice ; but I suppose it is 
for the best : 

‘ Some there are that shadows kiss. 

Some have hut a shadow’s bliss,’ 

and are content. I could not be. I can 
live without gold, but I cannot — I will 
not — accept tinsel for it.” 

“Yet there is gold in the world,” he 
said, half unconsciously, and in a voice 
so full of passion that Beatrix suddenly 
started, and, instead of a chord, struck a 
jarring discord from the keys on which 
her fingers rested. 

At that instant Florence Lathrop’s 
warning — which for a time she had for- 
gotten — recurred to her with startling 
force. Was it true that this man felt 
toward her as a lover ? Had she uncon- 
sciously made discord indeed in the fair, 
well-ordered purpose of his life ? 

“Perhaps so,” she ans-wered, so ab- 
sently and constrainedly that Archer 
knew he had betrayed himself, and then 
she glided into the delicate melody of one 
of the “Songs without Words.” 

He stood motionless while she played 
it, and when it was finished he said, with 
his usual manner : 

“Although this is very pleasant, I 
must not forget that you are, of necessity, 
tired. Let me thank you for a delightful 
evening, and say good^night.” 


Contrary to custom, he extended his 
hand — extended it so gravely and quietly, 
that Beatrix could not hesitate to place 
hers in it. 

For an instant — only for an instant — 
he held it in a close, warm grasp, looking 
the while into her eyes with an expres- 
sion she afterward remembered and com- 
prehended. Then, again saying “ Good- 
night,” he turned, crossed the room, 
spoke to the general, and went away. 

The next morning, when Miss Wal- 
dron came down to breakfast, she was 
surprised to find her father’s place vacant 
and her father gone. She glanced with 
astonishment at his cofiee-cup only half 
emptied, at the paper thrown aside un- 
read, and then rang the bell sharply. 

“ Where is your master. Price? ” she 
said to the servant who answered it, and 
who had a startled look on his face. 

“ Master’s gone into town. Miss Bea- 
trix,” answered Price, solemnly, and then 
paused as if uncertain whether or not to 
say more. 

“ Gone into town ! ” repeated Beatrix. 
“Why, he has not taken his breakfast! ” 

“No, m’m; he was only just begin- 
ning it,” assented Price, gravely. 

“ What called him away ? ” she asked. 

Price’s face grew more solemn, but it 
was a solemnity mixed with pleasure — 
that pleasure which all people of his class 
feel in being the first to tell a piece of 
sensational news. 

“ Master was just beginnin’ his break- 
fast,” he said, “ when he heard of a duel 
that’s been fought in Edgerton. Bob, 
what brought the mail, told him; and 
when he heard that Mr. Archer was dead, 
or dying, he went right off.” 

Beatrix’s eyes opened wide on the 
speaker, but, with an effort to compose 
herself, she said, quietly : 

“ Who fought the duel — and what had 
Mr. Archer to do with it ? There is some 
absurd mistake — ” ’ 

“ Oh, no, m’m, there isn’t ! ” inter- 
posed Price, eagerly. “ Mr. Archer fought 


106 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


the duel — him and Mr. Marchmont, at 
daylight this morning — and Bob saw them 
bringing in Mr. Archer in a carriage. 
He wasn’t quite dead then, but they said 
he couldn’t live.” 

Beatrix sank into the chair by which 
she was standing, her face growing white 
as the morning-dress she wore. In the 
terrible shock of the moment her heart 
almost ceased to beat. With a sudden 
flash of intuition she understood every- 
thing. It was for his interests in her 
affairs that Marchmont had held Archer 
to account, and that the latter paid so 
dearly r As the thought occurred to her, 
a great sense of passionate indignation 
overmastered every other consideration. 
“The wretch!” she said, between her 
clinched teeth. “ How dare he take such 
a revenge as this? ” 

Then she looked up at Price, pale as 
marble. “Take a horse and gointoEdg- 
erton at once!” she said. “Find your 
master, and ask him to send me word ex- 
actly how Mr. Archer is. Don’t waste a 
minute ; go and return as quickly as pos- 
sible.” 

When the servant was gone she turned 
away from the breakfast-table with that 
terrible sickness of the heart which un- 
nerves the whole body and sends a sen- 
sation of deadly faintness to the very tips 
of the fingers. The morning was exuber- 
antly bright and glorious — one of those 
mornings of mingled spring and summer 
when Nature seems rendering joyous 
thanks to her Creator in every gleam 
of sunshine, every matin song of her | 
feathered choir. But to Beatrix there I 
was something ghastly in all this bright- 
ness. With earth so fair around and 
heaven so pure above, the life of a brave 
and honorable man had been put in deadly 
peril — cut short, perhaps — because he had 
tried to save her from deception and mis- 
ery. 

She wandered restlessly into the draw- 
ing-room ; but, when her eyes fell on the 
spot where he had bidden her farewell 
the night before, a great throb of pain 


seized her heart; she suddenly remem- 
bered the wistful, intent gaze with which 
he had been regarding the house when 
she found him at the gate. “ This was 
what it meant ! ” she cried. “ And I — 
how cold, how constrained, how unsym- 
pathetic I was ! ” 

There was deep^wretchedness in such 
thoughts, but she could not banish them. 
She left the drawing-room and walked 
restlessly up and down the portico, until 
at last — after what seemed an intermi- 
nable length of time — Price appeared in 
sight galloping down the road. 

How long he took to reach the gates ! 
— how long to canter up the avenue to 
where she stood on the steps, shivering 
in the warm sunshine! 

Her fingers were cold as ice, and trem- 
bling so that she could scarcely control 
j them, when she took the note he brought 
and tore it open. This was what the gen- 
eral wrote : 

“ Archer is desperately wounded, and 
the doctors seem to entertain very little 
hope of his recovery. He is shot through 
the lung, and it is surprising that he was 
not killed outright. Marchmont is un- 
hurt. Both have observed great reticence 
with regard to the cause of the affair.” 

The paper dropped from her hand, and 
she stood gazing at the wide, beautiful 
prospect before her. Desperately wound- 
ed! — and that for no fault of his own, 
but because another man chose to be 
treacherous and dishonorable ! 

“ He was mad to meet him ! ” she 
murmured, half aloud. “ But, if he dies, 
I think I could find strength to kill March- 
mont myself! ” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

“the THOEXS I EEAP AEE OF THE TEEE 
I PLANTED.” 

In all her after-life Beatrix Waldron 
never forgot that day — so joyous in its 
beauty, so full of the soft whispering of 


“THE THORNS I REAP ARE OF THE TREE I PLANTED.’ 


107 


leaves, the songs of birds, the multitudi- 
nous sweet sounds of summer — when she 
was alone at Oedarwood with the thought 
that Archer was dying. 

The great empty house seemed to her 
strangely hushed and silent, and even the 
golden glory of the sunshine in her imagi- 
nation was full of pathos. During the 
long, bright hours of the morning she wan- 
dered aimlessly to and fro, hoping con- 
stantly that her father would return ; but 
when the time for luncheon came there 
was still no sign of him. 

Luncheon — at least the pretense of it 
— being over, the afternoon waned in 
mellow loveliness, but still the general 
did not come. As hour after hour passed, 
Beatrix’s impatience and anxiety grew al- 
most uncontrollable. Once she ordered 
the carriage, hut countermanded the or- 
der before the horses had been harnessed. 
She longed to drive into Edgerton and 
learn exactly how matters stood; but a 
fear lest her name might be more closely 
associated with the affair than she knew 
deterred her from doing so. If it should 
be on every one’s lip — as she had known 
other women’s names in connection with 
duels — she felt that she could not bear to 
appear and run the gantlet of observa- 
tion which is leveled upon the heroine of 
such tragedies. 

Neither did she like to send another 
message to her father. That shadow of 
propriety — that question, “ What will be 
thought of it? ” — which stands by women 
in all hours and at all times of their lives, 
made her hesitate even in this. “ After 
all, why should I be in so much haste?” 
she said to herself. “If the news is bad, 
I shall hear it soon enough. If it is good 
— but, alas! I fear there is little hope of 
that.” 

As this thought formed in her mind, 
the sound of wheels and horses’ feet ad- 
vancing up the avenue made her start. 
She moved hastily to the window, but, in- 
stead of the barouche which had been 
sent for her father, it was the Lathrop 
carriage which drew up before the door. 


Surprise was her predominant sensa- 
tion on recognizing the equipage — a sur- 
prise which was not lessened by the fact 
that Mrs. Lathrop’s portly figure de- 
scended from it. At sight of this figure 
a swift wave of color rose into Miss Wal- 
dron’s pale cheeks. “ Has he ventured to 
send her here?” she thought, as she 
turned from the window and walked 
across the room. According to the usual 
dilatory habits of servants, several min- 
utes elapsed before the visitor’s name was 
brought up, and these minutes Beatrix 
spent at her mirror, knowing that she 
could not afford to appear in any discon- 
solate guise before the keen eyes which 
awaited her below. 

She was quieter, cooler, rather more 
stately than usual, when she entered the 
drawing-room ; this was the only change 
that Mrs. Lathrop perceived. That lady, 
however, was herself very much shaken 
out of her wonted repose, and therefore 
not altogether possessed of her usual cool 
judgment. Greetings having been ex- 
changed, she plunged at once into the sub- 
ject which occupied her thoughts. 

“My dear,” she said, when they had 
seated^ themselves, “ I have come to see 
you chiefiy to express my deep regret for 
this most unfortunate affair.” 

“ I suppose,” said Beatrix, coldly, 
“ that you allude to the duel between Mr. 
Marchmont and Mr. Archer. But why 
should you come to me to express your 
regret with regard to it ? ” 

“ There are several reasons why I have 
felt impelled to do so,” replied Mrs. La- 
throp, with her most imposing air. “ In 
the first place, I must tell you that I have 
never in my life been so mortified and 
grieved by anyone connected with me as 
by my nephew, Brian Marchmont. As 
far as I can learn, there is no excuse for 
his conduct, and I am deeply provoked 
with Edward for acting as his second in 
this duel.” 

“ There is certainly no excuse for his 
conduct,” said Beatrix. “You are quite 
right with regard to that.” 


108 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“It is probable that you may imag- 
ine,” proceeded Mrs. Latbrop, “ that I 
have been anxious for the success of his 
suit with you. Such a conclusion would 
be a natural but a very mistaken one. I 
have never, my dear, never thought that 
such a marriage would be for your hap- 
piness ; and I frankly told Brian so when 
I remonstrated with him, several weeks 
ago, on his flirtation with that girl Amy 
Reynolds.” 

“ If you had spoken to me on the sub- 
ject,” said Beatrix, in the same cold, even 
voice, “I might have set your mind at 
rest by assuring you that I had not the 
least intention of marrying Mr. March- 
mont. I am sorry that I ever took his 
suit into consideration ; but I knew little 
of him at the time, and it seemed only 
just to know more before deciding 
finally.” 

“ It almost appears as if madness pos- 
sessed him,” said Mrs. Lathrop. “To 
bring rejection on himself, as I said to- 
day, and then to resent it by taking an- 
other man’s life.” 

“ Is Mr. Archer dead ? ” asked Bea- 
trix, quickly. 

Despite her self-control, she could not 
repress the sudden quiver that ran over , 
her frame, the sudden pallor that came 
to her face, and Mrs. Lathrop noted both. 

“ He was not dead when I left Edger- , 
ton,” she replied, “but I believe the doc- 
tors give little hope of his recovery. May | 
I ask, my dear — as your sincere friend, 
and with a view to contradicting authori- 
tatively the many wild rumors that are 
afloat — exactly what the ground of quar- 
rel was ? I have heard — but I can hard- 
ly believe it — that Mr. Archer was your 
suitor.” 

“He was not,” said Beatrix. “He 
was only my friend, and as my friend he 
tried to serve me. Of the exact ground 
of quarrel I am ignorant. Though ^Ir. 
Archer was here last night,” she went on, 
with her voice slightly faltering, “he 
said nothing of the affair, and hence I 
know no more concerning it than you do.” 


“ Indeed ! ” said Mrs. Lathrop. 

This astute woman, who had come to 
Cedarwood resolved to learn all that was 
possible, did not sufi'er that sign of falter- 
ing to escape her, and, regarding Miss Wal- 
dron closely, she went on : 

“So Mr. Archer was here last night! 
He must possess remarkable self-control, 
if he did not betray any sense of the 
danger he was about to incur. Neither 
Brian nor Edward joined our family circle 
yesterday evening.” 

“ Mr. Archer was altogether as usual,” 
answered Beatrix, briefly ; but as she 
spoke she remembered vividly that fare- 
well glance which she now so well under- 
stood. 

“ With regard to the cause of the 
duel,” said Mrs. Lathrop, after a mo- 
ment’s pause, “it is the general impres- 
sion that Brian challenged Mr. Archer 
because he had produced an estrangement 
between him — that is, Brian — and your- 
self.” 

“He did nothing of the kind,” said 
Beatrix. “The idea rests on an entire 
misconception. There is no ‘estrange- 
ment’ between your nephew and myself, 
Mrs. Lathrop. I simply discovered — 
partly through Mr. Archer, partly through 
others, but chiefly through circumstances 
j — that, while professing to be my suitor, 
Mr. Marchmont was making love to an- 
other woman. That, in itself, apart 
from his other dishonorable conduct, was 
enough to make me decline any further 
acquaintance with him.” 

“ I told him how it would be,” said 
Mrs. Lathrop, shaking her head. “I 
warned him of such a result as soon as I 
heard of that affair with Amy Reynolds.” 

“I would rather not speak of the 
matter,” said Beatrix, drawing her brows 
together. “It all seems of small account 
just now — of horribly small account, to 
cost a gallant and honorable life.” 

“Nevertheless, we have to think of 
what will be said,” answered the veteran 
woman of the world, laying her hand 
impressively on her companion’s arm. 


“THE THORXS I REAP ARE OF THE TREE I PLANTED.” 


109 


“ Candidly, my dear, it would be better 
for you to give me exactly the version of 
the affair you vyould like circulated. We 
cannot keep people from talking, so the 
best thing to do is to give them, if possi- 
ble, the truth to talk about.” 

But Beatrix, who felt that she had 
borne as much as she possibly could, made 
a gesture of impatience. 

“ Let them talk as they please,” she 
said ; “ I feel absolutely indifferent to any- 
thing they can say. Pray do not trouble 
me any further with the subject, Mrs. 
Lathrop. It is at once painful and dis- 
agreeable.” 

Mrs. Lathrop, whose curiosity and 
“managing ” proclivities had seldom been 
so baffled, would have liked to press the 
matter further, but there was something 
in Miss Waldron’s face and manner which 
made this impossible ; so, after a little 
constrained and desultory conversation, 
she rose and took leave. 

As her carriage was driving out of 
the grounds, the general’s long-expected 
barouche entered the gates, and Beatrix 
had the trial of standing at the drawing- 
room window for fully, ten minutes, 
watching the two equipages standing 
abreast while their occupants talked. 

Few things are more trying to nerves 
and temper than such waiting for news 
as this, while the bearer of it is within 
sight; and Beatrix could have condemned 
Mrs. Lathrop to silence for a year before 
that lady finally drove off. 

When the general reached the portico, 
he found his daughter waiting for him, 
with an appealing look of anxiety in her 
eyes. 

Her first words were a’ question. 

“ How is he, papa ? ” she asked. 

“No better,” answered her father, 
who was deliberately alighting ; “ but, I 
am glad to say, no worse. The doctors 
don’t give much hope, but it is my opin- 
ion he may get well. He has a good 
constitution to fall back upon, and I have 
known men more seriously wounded to 
recover.” 


“Oh, thank you, papa; it is pleasant 
to hear something encouraging at last! 
Why didn’t you come back sooner? I 
have been so lonely and wretched all 
day!” 

“ Well, I did not like to leave the poor 
fellow. He has few friends, you know, 
and this morning the doctors thought he 
might die at any time. He was a fool to 
meet that puppy Marchmont ; but, after 
all,” said the gentleman of the old regime^ 
“ it is a good thing to err on the side of 
courage.” 

“He was worse than foolish — he was 
wrong, to meet him ! ” said Beatrix. 

“Eh? was he?” said her father. 
“ From what I hear, I imagine that you 
know more of it than any one else ; and 
I shall be glad if you will tell me all that 
you know, after a while.” 

After a while, therefore, Beatrix com- 
plied with this request, and for the first 
time the general heard of the dishonor- 
able conduct of the man who had aspired 
to be his son-in-law. His wrath was deep 
and loud. 

“The scoundrel!” he said, twisting 
his white mustache vehemently. “He 
has not the faintest claim to be esteemed 
a gentleman! No schoolboy of average 
honor would have held his tongue about 
the miniature and allowed that poor boy 
to suffer. As for his conduct to you, it 
is difficult to characterize that as it de- 
serves! ” 

“ Fortunately I cared nothing for him,” 
said Beatrix, “ so it did not matter. But 
it is cowardly to strike at me through my 
friends.” 

“ It is more than cowardly — it is in- 
famous ! ” said the general, “ and if Arch- 
er dies, I shall feel inclined to try my 
hand at shooting. By Jove! I don’t 
wonder he could not refuse the challenge. 
I should like a crack at the fellow my- 
self.” 

“ The result has not been very satis- 
factory, so far as Mr. Archer is con- 
cerned,” said Beatrix. 

The next day the news from Archer 


no 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


was very mucli of the same character, al- 
though the doctors expressed a little more 
hope. 

It was in the course of this day that 
Miss Waldron was shocked to hear of the 
sudden death of Felix Reynolds, and she 
drove at once into Edgerton to offer her 
sympathy and condolence. 

At the house of the musician she saw 
only Mr. Trafford, and heard from him of 
Amy’s illness and Mr. Reynolds’s despair. 

“How often a narrow step alone di- j 
vides brightest pleasure from deepest j 
pain ! ” she said. “ Do you remember the 
joy and pride of Mr. Reynolds’s face when 
Felix was playing on the night of the 
J^te? And poor Amy! her triumph was 
turned to bitterness even before this 
came. I am so very sorry for her ! If I 
can do anything, Mr. Trafford, pray let j 
me know — anything, I mean, in the way ! 
of assistance.” j 

“You are very kind, my dear young 
lady,” said Mr. Trafford, “and I will cer- j 
tainly call upon you if there is any .need ' 
to do so. I sincerely hope that Mr. | 
Archer may recover,” he went on, look- | 
ing at her with a certain friendly keen- ; 
ness, “and I believe he will. I saw ' 
him this morning, and I do not think he | 
has any appearance of a man who means j 
to die.” j 

“I hope not,” said Beatrix. Then, I 
with a few more expressions of kindly ^ 
interest, she went away. j 

As she was entering the carriage, Hugh j 
Dinsmore approached the house, and, j 
when she beckoned him to her side, she ] 
was struck by the haggard paleness of his j 
face. 

“ I know this is a grief to you,” she | 
said, gently. “Felix was to have-been 
your traveling companion — was he not? ” 
Hugh’s eyes filled with tears. “ Felix 
has been my companion always,” he said, 

“ and it- added to my happiness, in the 
thought of going abroad, that I was to 
he with him — that we could go together 
and become artists, as we had so often 
dreamed of doing. Now — ” 


“It is very sad,” said Miss Waldron, 
as his voice faltered and ceased; “but 
remember that the friends whom death 
takes we possess in a measure still; at 
least, nothing can dim or mar their mem- 
ory. Those whom life takes from us, on 
the contrary, we lose utterly. If Felix 
had lived, you might have lost him, some 
day, in a wo' se manner than this. Try 
and let that thought comfort you. Will 
you come out to Cedarwood as soon as 
possible?” she added. “ Papa wishes to 
make some arrangements about your jour- 
ney.” 

“ There would be no good in my com- 
ing just now,” said Hugh, looking at her 
with his limpid eyes. “ I cannot go away 
— I cannot decide anything while Amy is 
ill. I must know that she is well ; I must 
see her again before I can leave Edger- 
ton.” 

“That is natural,” said Miss Waldron, 
reading the whole story at once. “ Come 
when you like, then ; papa is in no haste. 
Good-morning ! ” 

As she drove away, her meditations 
were by no means of a cheerful order. 
“What a curious tangle life is!” she 
thought. “ Here this poor hoy has set 
his heart on a girl who cares nothing for 
him — who, in turn, has given Jier heart 
to a man who merely regarded her as a 
subject for idle amusement. Is it always 
so, I wonder? Are women’s eyes always 
blinded by tinsel to the value of gold? 
Ah, not always — not always! I take no 
credit to myself for not loving that man. 
I am simply older, wiser, colder, than the 
child who gave him all that she had to 
give of passion and fancy; hut I have 
been as blind as she to the merit of an- 
other.” 

It has been said before, that want of 
courage was not one of Marchmont’s 
faults, and therefore it was not strange 
that he remained in Edgerton for several 
days after the duel. Public sentiment 
indignantly condemned his course, hut 
for that very reason he defied public sen- 


THE THORNS I REAP ARE OF THE TREE I PLANTED.” 


Ill 


tiraent by his presence. His friends and 
relations were exceedingly anxious for his 
departure, but he was in no haste to 
gratify them. The place had become 
hateful to him, but he would not give 
people the least ground for saying that 
he was afraid to remain ; so, for once, he 
compelled himself to endure an absolutely 
disagreeable thing. 

During these days he heard of Felix’s 
death, but the event made no impression 
on him ; graver matters of concern had 
thrust Amy from his mind, and, if he 
thought of her at all, it was with a sense 
of impatient anger. 

He had thrown away solid advantages 
and involved himself in any amount of 
unpleasantness on her account, and she 
had ventured to turn upon him with un- 
grateful reproaches ! His idle fancy for 
her had died on that night, in the grounds 
of Cedarwood, when, instead of the pret- 
ty, piquant toy he had believed her to be, 
she faced him with the indignation of an 
outraged woman; from that moment her 
influence, such as it was, sank down and 
died, and her quondam lover only thought 
of her to execrate his folly. 

At last the day came when Archer 
was, by medical authority, pronounced 
out of danger, and Marchmont felt that no 
man could venture to cast a reproach up- 
on him if he left Edgerton. He prepared 
to do so with a great sense of relief. 

It was impossible for him to disguise 
from himself the fact that he had made a 
complete fiasco of the business which had 
drawn him here ; and if a jiasco is an es- 
tablished fact, it is at least pleasant to 
leave the scene of it behind. 

He left this scene on an afternoon of 
golden beauty, when through the droop- 
ing boughs of the trees the sun’s rays shot 
in long lances of gold, and the air seemed 
dissolving in amber mist — an afternoon 
like many of those when he had loitered 
with Amy among the spring woods where 
summer’s richer robes now hung. The 
Lathrops obeyed very heartily the hos- 
pitable injunction to “speed the parting 


guest ; ” and it was the same sense of duty 
which had influenced Edward in the mat- 
ter of the duel, which induced him to ac- 
company his cousin to the railroad-station 
and see him off. 

On their way thither they passed the 
church which the Lathrops attended, and 
where Marchmont had once or twice, in 
a fit of ennui^ accompanied them. The 
door stood open, a few people were lin- 
gering round it, and the bell in the tower 
! above was tolling slowly, solemnly, on 
the still air. Who has not sometimes 
I been struck with the painful incongruity 
I of such a knell with the soft loveliness of 
a day which alone seems fitted for life 
and happiness ? Even Marchmont felt it 
now. 

j “ It is hard lines on some poor creat- 
i ure to be put under the ground to-day,” 

I he said. “Who is to be buried, Ned? ” 

! “Haven’t you heard? ” answered La- 
' throp, regarding him with an odd look. 

; “ Mr. Reynolds is dead.” 

I Despite himself, Marchmont felt that 
he started and changed color. In truth, 
he was for a moment deeply shocked. 

I “Good Heaven! ” he said. “Do you 
i mean the music-teacher — Amy’s father ? ” 

“The same,” his cousin answered. 

“ Why, what has killed him? ” 

I “ The visitation of God — as coroners’ 
juries say — I suppose. Some people 
i think that he died of grief from the death 
! of his son.” 

“It is a great misfortune for his fam- 
ily, is it not?” said Marchmont, after a 
pause. “Have they anything to depend 
upon ? ” 

“ I don’t know about their affairs, but 
I should not imagine they had. Amy 
will probably make a fortune some day, 
if she lives.” 

“ If she lives! ” repeated Marchmont. 
“Is she ill?” 

“ What ! you don’t know that ? ” asked 
Lathrop, in surprise. “She is danger- 
ously ill, I believe, with diphtheria — the 
same disease of which Felix died.” 

I “ I had not heard it,” said Marchmont, 


112 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


slowly. Then, after a moment’s silence, 
he added, “ I am very sorry.” 

“ It certainly is a pity,” said the other, 
a little dryly — “ or will be a pity if she 
dies — poor girl ! ” 

Marchmont did not answer this re- 
mark ; perhaps he could not. Steeped in 
selfishness and worldliness as he was, a 
thrill of shame went through him — shame 
for leaving, at such a time as this, without 
even a word of sympathy, without even 
learning whether she lived or died, the 
girl he had professed to love. 

For one minute — with the deep stroke 
of the hell falling measuredly on his ear, 
and reminding him of her desolate posi- 
tion — he felt an inclination to return ; but 
this did not last long. 

“ What good could I possibly accom- 
plish?” he asked himself. “It would be 
absurd and inconvenient in every way for 
me to do such a thing.” 

“We are barely in time to catch your 
train, Brian,” said Lathrop, as they came 
in sight of the station. “Yonder it 
stands.” 

“I should not like to miss it,” said 
Marchmont. 

Nor did he. By the time he reached 
the platform of the station a revulsion of 
feeling had come, and he was more anx- 
ious than ever to leave. “ Our pleasant 
vices are made whips with which to | 
scourge us,” and some such whip the | 
thought of Amy Reynolds had become- to 
him. He was glad to shake hands quick- 
ly with Lathrop, to spring into the mov- 
ing train, and to feel that its motion bore 
him swiftly away from past follies and fu- 
ture annoyances. 


CHAPTER XX. 

EXEUNT OMNES. 

After the last heavy blow that struck 
Amy to the earth, the doctor went in 
grave anxiety to Mr. Trafford. 

“I am very uneasy about that poor 


girl,” he said. “She has learned that 
her voice is ruined, and her despair is 
terrible — not noisy, you understand, but 
worse than that. When I was obliged 
to tell her the truth yesterday, she fainted, 
and since then she has hardly uttered a 
word. She simply lies and stares blankly 
out of the window, with an expression 
of face that might move a stone to pity. 
In all my life I never felt more sorry for 
any one. Her relations and friends — if 
she has any — certainly ought to be in- 
formed of her condition.” 

“She has no relations, and, to my 
knowledge, but one friend,” replied Mr. 
Trafford, quietly. “ That friend will en- 
deavor to do the best he can for her, 
doctor, you may be sure.” 

“ That friend is yourself, of course,” 
said the doctor. “You are an extraordi- 
nary man, Mr. Trafford.” 

“ If you mean with regard to my con- 
duct in this matter, I should be sorry to 
agree with you. It is surely not extraor- 
dinary to feel . compassion for the deso- 
late and helpless.” 

“You ought to know the world as 
well as I,” said the doctor, dryly, “there- 
fore you ought to know that it is extraor- 
dinary for a man to feel such compas- 
sion, and more extraordinary still for him 
to act upon it in any practical manner. 
But then, you are not bound by the ties 
that bind most men,” he added, reflec- 
tively. 

“lam glad to say that I am not,” an- 
swered Mr. Trafford, “ if such ties would 
serve me, as I have seen them serve other 
men, as an excuse and cloak for selflsh' 
ness. I am much obliged for your infor- 
mation,” he went on, “and I will see 
Miss Reynolds as soon as possible. When 
do you think I can do so ? ” 

“The sooner the better, I should say, 
if you have any comfort to offer her.” 

“ Very well,” said Mr. Trafford, med- 
itatively. 

While this conversation was in prog- 
ress, some one else had forestalled the 
deliberation of the elder man with the 


EXEUNT OMNES. 


113 


impetuosity of youth, and insisted upon 
seeing Amy without delay. 

This was Hugh Dinsmore, who had 
haunted the house like a restless spirit 
during Amy’s illness, hut who could not 
have won permission from Clara to see 
her now, if the faithful guardian had not 
thought that his presence might rouse 
the girl a little from that apathy of de- 
spair which alarmed her as it alarmed 
the doctor. 

“ And she has heard that her voice is 
lost?” cried Hugh. “Clara, I must — I 
mmt see her ! She will die if some one 
does not try to help her ! ” 

“ ’Deed, it looks like it ! ” said Clara, 
in a melancholy tone. “ I reckon you 
migM see her ; it couldn’t do no harm, and 
it might do some good. She’s dresssed, 
but she don’t seem to care about leavin’ 
her room ; so I’ll take you up there.” 

Hugh was accordingly taken up and 
introduced into the small, plaip, spotless 
chamber, which, like every other corner 
of the house, he had known well during 
his years of intimacy with the Reynolds 
children. 

His old playmate, so altered in appear- 
ance that he would scarcely have known 
her, sat by the window which overlooked 
the garden, gazing with blank, sombre 
eyes at the network of boughs across the 
soft blue sky. 

“ Here’s Mr. Hugh Dinspjore, Miss 
Amy,” said Clara, opening the door. 
“ He’s been makin’ such a fuss to see you, 
that I thought I’d bring him up.” 

“ Come in, Hugh,” said Amy, turning 
her face, without the least variation of 
expression. “It is kind of you to want 
to see me, and you are almost the only 
person whom I would not dislike to see. 
That is a poor welcome,” she added, with 
the saddest possible smile ; “ but you will 
take it for what it is worth — will you 
not?” 

“ 0 Amy — my poor Amy ! ” cried 
Hugh, appalled by the change in her — by 
the quiet of the white, thin face, by the 
sombre darkness of the sunken eyes, by 


the entire aspect of hopeless despair. 
With a passionate grasp he held the frail 
hands which she yielded passively to him, 

I and. gazed at her with a sorrow and sym- 
I pathy too deep for words. 

Amy looked at him also, but it was 
with a far-off, absent gaze, as if she were 
thinking of something far beyond the act- 
ual moment. 

“How long it seems since last we met, 
Hugh! ” she said. “Do you remember? 
It was the night of the concert ; you and 
I and Felix were in the parlor, and I sang 
for you.” 

“I have seen you since then,” said 
Hugh. “ Once, in Felix’s room — ” 

“I did not see you then,” she said; 
“ but I remember that night as if I saw a 
picture across a great gulf : you and I and 
Felix, and papa coming in, and how I 
sang, and how excited I was, and how 
pretty I looked — and now! Can you 
count up all that I have lost since then, 
Hugh?” 

“Don’t talk of it,” said Hugh, in a 
choked voice. “ It is — it is too much for 
you.” 

“ Why should I not talk of it, when I 
think of it all the time ! ” she said, look- 
ing at him with the same unchanging 
face. “You need not be afraid that I 
shall give way and cry. I do not think I 
shall ever shed a tear again. So much 
has gone, that I hardly feel as if anything 
was left. Papa and Felix, and my voice 
and my heart, and my power to be sorry, 
it seems — all that, Hugh, and more be- 
sides. I wonder why I got -well. I 
thought it was to take care of Mariette 
and the boys. But what can I do for 
them, now that my voice is gone? We 
are only helpless children together, with 
not one friend on earth.” 

“OAmy, have you forgotten me?” 
cried poor Hugh. He knelt before her, 
and, still holding her hands fast in his 
own, looked appealingly at the wan young 
face, now bereft of all beauty save the 
beauty of outline. “Ever since we were 
little children I have been like one of 


114 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


your brothers,” he said. “Let me be 
your brother now. I will help you, I will 
work for you, I will do everything in the 
world I can, if you will only let me 
serve you — and you will, Amy — will you 
not? ” 

“ It is impossible, Hugh ! ” said Amy, 
quietly ; “ you know it is impossible. I 
have no claim upon you — none in the 
world — unless you consider it a claim to 
have treated you unkindly, to have re- 
fused to listen to your advice, and to 
have suffered at last for my obstinacy and 
heedlessness, as you told me that I would 
suffer.” 

“You have the claim of our old 
friendship and affection,” said Hugh. “ I 
have not forgotten that the only home- 
life I have ever known has been in this 
house. Amy, I am strong, and I can 
work hard for you, if you will only con- 
sider me as a brother.” I 

“You are very kind, Hugh,” said ! 
Amy, touched by his pleading, but still j 
more by his delicacy in not mentioning 
his love; “but I am older than you in ! 
feeling^ and I know that such a thing is 
quite impossible. Besides, you forget | 
that you have your own life to consider ! 
— that you are going abroad to study art.” I 

“I have decided not to go,” said 
Hugh. “I have been offered a clerkship 
here, and I will take it gladly, if you say so.” 

“And give up the career on which 
your heart is set ? ” asked Amy, looking 
at him in surprise. 

“ I would rather be of use to you than 
become the greatest artist in the world,” 
he answered, simply. 

“Are you in earnest?” she said, 
roused to interest. “ Would you give up 
the object of your life, now that it is with- 
in your grasp, and remain here, bound to I 
a toil you detest — all for my sake ? Hugh, | 
do you mean it? ” 

“ I mean it with all my heart ! ” he 
replied ; “ and I will work as I have 
never worked before in all my life, Amy, 
if you will let me take charge of you.” 

Amy was silent for a moment. Her 


eyes left the eager face before her, and 
gazed out of the open window at the far 
blue sky with a strange, reflective expres- 
sion. 

“ You would do all this for me ? ” she 
said, at last, slowly; “and I — what have 
I done for you? What sacriflce have I 
ever made? Hugh, I feel this moment, 
as I have never before felt, how shameful 
my conduct has been. But you are so 
kind, so patient, you will forgive me — 
will you not? I cannot accept your sac- 
riflce — I could not be so selfish, even if 
other reasons did not make it impos ible. 
You must go away and be an artist. How 
we three talked and dreamed of being ar- 
tists together some day — do you remem- 
ber? Now, Felix is dead, and my voice 
is dead with him, and you are the only 
one left to fulfill our dreams. You must 
do it; and if we should never see each 
other again, you must think ‘that poor 
Amy, though foolish and vain, was very 
young; and when sorrow and desolation 
came, she found that she had one faithful, 
unselfish friend, and she never, never for- 
got him ! ’ ” 

“And you won’t let me help you? ” 
cried Hugh, despairingly. “ O Amy, 
you must — you must! You don’t know 
— you don’t understand what a terrible 
thing the world is to a girl like you. It 
would have been hard enough to con- 
quer even with all the sweetness of your 
voice; hwinow — ” 

• “I know it all,” she said, as he 
paused. “ I think of it until my brain 
seems reeling. O Hugh, if I had my 
voice, I should fear nothing! Was it not 
cruel to take my voice from me — all that 
I had left?” 

“Hush, dear!” said Hugh. “You 
forget Who took it.” 

“ I suppose you mean that God took 
it,” she said, “ and perhaps he did ; but 
do you know who was the human cause 
of its loss ? ” 

“You contracted the disease which 
ruined it in nursing Felix,” said Hugh, 
uncertain as to what she meant. 


EXEUNT OMNES. 


115 


“And Felix took it from a schoolfel- 
low whom he would never have gone to 
see if he had sailed for Europe when papa 
intended that he should. He did not sail 
because Brian Marchmont threw on him, 
as well as on you, suspicion with regard 
to that miniature. And so it is to Brian 
Marchmont that I owe — everything.” 

“I would not think of it if I were 
you,” said Hugh, rendered vaguely un- 
easy by her manner. 

“I hope I shall always think of it,” 
she said. “ I trust that I shall never 
forget my debt until I can pay it.” 

Before Hugh could answer, the door 
opened, and Clara looked in. 

“Mr. Trafford’s down-stairs, and is 
very anxious to see you. Miss 4.my,” she 
said. “ Shall I bring him up? ” 

“Yes,” answered Amy, with the same 
quiet apathy that she had shown with 
regard to Hugh. — “ Mr. Trafford has been 
so kind, that I cannot refnse to see him,” 
she added, as Clara went away. “ He 
has done a great deal for us.” 

'"'•He has the power,” said Hugh, for 
the first time feeling a jealous envy of 
Mr. Traflford. 

“ I am as grateful to you for having 
the will,” she said, looking at him with 
her steady, sad eyes — eyes out of which 
the sunny joyousness of youth had died 
forever. 

As Mr. Trafford came up-stairs he 
met Hugh going down, and paused for a 
moment to speak to the young man. 

“ I suppose you will soon be turning 
your face toward the Old World,” he 
said, after they had exchanged greetings. 

“ It is by no means certain that I shall 
go at all,” Hugh answered, rather brusque- 
ly, and passed on. 

Even to Hugh’s generous nature it was 
hard to look at the elder man and think 
how much he was able to do for Amy, 
while he himself could do nothing. 

Mr. Trafford, who had not seen Amy 
since her illness, was, like Hugh, shocked 
by her wasted appearance. 

Sickness, grief, and wearing anxiety, 


can in a short time work a great change ; 
and they had done their utmost here. 

As Mr. Trafford entered the room, 
Amy rose to meet him, and held out her 
hand with an air of gravity which seemed 
to place her far above the level of the 
pretty girl he had noticed and admired a 
short time before. 

“ How good you have been to us ! ” 
she said, lifting her dark, circled eyes to 
his. “ I cannot thank you now, Mr. 
Trafford ; but some day, perhaps — ” 

“Never mind about that, my dear,” 
he interrupted. “You have nothing — 
nothing at all — for which to thank me. 
I have been heartily glad to be of service, 
but I have done very little. I have now 
come to discuss how I can best serve you 
further,” he went on, plunging hastily 
into his subject. “ Let us sit down. My 
poor child, this will never do! You are 
a shadow-^an absolute ghost ! ” 

“Am I?” said Amy, indifferently. 
“Yes, I suppose so; but it does not mat- 
ter.” 

“ Excuse me,” said Mr. Trafford, “but 
I disagree with you there. It does mat- 
ter very much ; and I see that the doctor 
was right — you need change of air and 
scene at once.” 

She looked a little surprised. 

“I did not think the doctor was so 
foolish as to say such a thing of m«,” she 
answered. “Did he tell you the awful 
news that my voice — my one possession, 
my last hope — is gone? ” 

“He told me,” replied Mr. Trafford, 
compassionately. “I was grieved, but 
not surprised. The disease which you 
have had generally injures the voice, and 
therefore I feared this from the first. 
Since it has destroyed your cherished 
life-plan, have you made any other?” 

“ How could I ? ” she asked, drearily. 
“It was only yesterday I discovered the 
loss of my voice. Since then I have done 
nothing but wonder why I did not die — 
I, instead of Felix! But I am alive, and 
I must find some way to make bread for 
myself and the children who will be de- 


116 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


pendent on me. Can you tell me, Mr. i 
Trafford — you who know the world— 
what I can do ? I am so young, and, alas, 
so ignorant ! I could sing — that was all. 
What can I do, now that my voice is 
gone? ” 

Mr. Trafford rose abruptly and walked 
across the room and back. His eyes were 
suspiciously moist, and he blew his nose 
with an emphasis which made Amy start. 

When ne returned to her side and sat 
down again, he took one of the small, 
frail hands, as Hugh had done a short 
time before. 

“ My dear,” he said, kindly and grave- 
ly, “ I feel for you more than words can 
express, and this sympathy must he my | 
excuse for what I am about to propose. 
You ask if I can suggest anything for you 
to do — you, so young, so delicate, so un- 
fitted to cope with the world! I answer, 
that I have been considering the matter 
ever since your father’s death, and I have 
decided that there is but one thing for you 
to do — if you can ; that is, to marry me.” 

“ Mr. Trafford 1 ” gasped Amy. She 
could say nothing more, but her face ex- 
pressed extreme amazement. 

She had felt as if nothing on earth 
could startle her benumbed sensations; 
but this gave her a shock of surprise 
which thrilled her like a charge from a 
galvanic battery. She gazed at the speak- 
er with eyes expanded and lips apart, as 
if doubting the evidence of her senses. 

“I thought I should startle you,” he 
said, “but there was no way to avoid it. 
Now, listen to me before you answer. 

I am a rich man, and have not a relative 
in the world who has any claim upon my 
fortune. Under these circumstances, I 
feel at liberty to leave it as I please, and 
for some time past I have decided to 
leave it to you. I can hardly tell what 
influenced me to this determination, ex- 
cept that I liked you — one can’t analyze 
liking, you know ; and when I heard you 
wishing for wealth, I felt inclined to 
transform myself into a sort of fairy god- 
father. If I had chosen to announce that I 


! I meant to make you sole heiress of a 
fortune larger than General Waldron’s, 
you might have married the man with 
whom you fancied yourself in love a little 
while ago; but I think you have sense 
enough to be glad that I spared you such 
a fate. Had your father lived, I should 
never have asked you to become the wife 
of an old fellow like me ; but I now see 
no other means of giving you the home 
and the protector you need. If you con- 
sent to marry me, I will do everything in 
my power to make you happy ; and I 
will care for Mariette and the boys as if 
they were my own children. I have 
turned the matter over in my mind, and 
I I can see no other plan which is not open 
to grave objections. However, if you can 
think of any other, I will give it careful 
consideration.” 

He paused, as if waiting for her an- 
swer ; but Amy could not answer. The 
world seemed spinning round with her, 
and the pleasant face she knew so well, 
with its iron-gray hair and kindly eyes, 
seemed gazing at her out of a mist. 

“ Take time,” he said, seeing her agi- 
tation. “I am in no haste. If you can- 
not answer me now, I wjll wait until 
to-morrow. Think of the matter in all 
its bearings, and give me your decision 
then.” 

“Stop!” said Amy, as he rose, and 
she laid her hand nervously on his arm. 
“ You have forgotten — you cannot mean 
such a thing as this, if you remember my 
wretched folly — ” 

“ I remember all that,” he interrupt- 
ed; “but your folly was only folly — 
nothing worse. Answer me this : if Brian 
Marchmont entered that door now, how 
would you feel toward him ? ” 

“ I should feel that I hated him with 
all my strength ! ” she answered, with a 
sudden light of passion flashing into her 
eyes. 

“He is not worth bestowing hate up- 
on,” said Mr. Trafford, gravely. “Sim- 
ply put him out of your mind and your 
; heart — that will do.” 


EXEUNT 

“ He has left me no heart,” she said. 
“That is the worst of it. I cannot even 
grieve as I should for papa and Felix — I 
feel so dead. Nothing moves me. I am 
very grateful to you, Mr. Trafford, but I 
do not feel your kindness as I ought. I 
only know you must be very sorry for 
me, to make such a proposal as you 
have.” 

“ My dear little girl,” he said, gently, 
■“ I am very sorry for you ; but all the 
sorrow in the world would not induce 
me to make such an offer, if I were not 
sincerely attached to you. I am too old 
for lovers’ rhapsodies, but it is my heart 
which I offer you as well as my hand.” 

She looked up at him, with unutter- 
able astonishment on her face. 

“Your heart — to we.'” she said. 

Why, you have only known me as an 
ignorant, foolish, selfish child I ” 

“ But I think there are capabilities of 
other things in you,” he answered. “At 
least, such as you are I like you, and, if 
you can marry me, I will endeavor to 
make you happy. Don’t answer now, 
however. I will be back to-morrow.” 

With a warm clasp of her hand, he 
went away, and a minute later she heard 
his voice, speaking to Mariette in the 
passage below. 

The sound brought back to her memo- 
ry all his kindness during the period of 
sorrow through which they had passed, 
and, sinking back into her chair, she cov- 
ered her face with her hands and tried to 
think. 

It did not take long for her to decide 
that she would accept Mr. Trafford’s pro- 
posal. There was every motive to induce 
her to do so, and no reason for refusal. 
If he had asked her for love, she would 
have turned away from him ; but he had 
not done so, and she felt an instinctive 
sense that she could trust him not to de- 
mand more than she could give. She 
had been scorched by the fire of passion 
until she shrank from the mere thought 
of it ; and there was an attraction in the 
very calmness of the man who offered 


OMNES. ll-J 

her position and wealth, recognizing the 
great gulf of years between them. 

Only those who have stood, like Amy, 
desolate and helpless, bereft of every- 
thing, can appreciate what this offered 
protection was to her ; and when her 
decision was finally taken, she drew a 
deep breath of relief to think that all 
anxiety was over — anxiety for herself, 
and for those even more helpless than 
herself. 

Yet it was with a great sense of sad- 
ness and pain that she bade farewell to 
all the past — to the careless Bohemian 
life — to the glorious hopes of winniug 
fame and fortune — to the days made 
golden by the light of youth’s romance ! 
All were utterly dead, and the fruit of 
the last had turned to bitter ashes on her 
lips; but she could not think of them 
without that pang which irrevocable 
parting never fails to bring. 

The first person who heard of her 
resolution was Hugh. In the evening he 
came again, bearing a message from Miss 
Waldron, who wished to see Amy, and 
desired to offer any assistance in her 
power. 

“No doubt she means to be kind,” 
Amy answered, quietly, “but I need no 
assistance. Since I saw you this morn- 
ing, Hugh, life has changed for me ; my 
future is assured, and all care about it is 
over.” 

A vivid flush mounted to Hugh’s face. 
“You have taken from Mr. Trafford, 
then, assistance which you would not 
take from me ! ” he said. “ Amy, is that 
kind?” 

“If I had taken the assistance you 
mean from Mr. Trafford, I might answer 
that he is able to render it, and you are 
not,” said Amy. “ But I mean more than 
that, when I say that my future is as- 
sured ; I mean, Hugh, that I am going to 
marry him.” 

“You mean — Amy, are you mad?” 
asked Hugh, hoarsely. “ Marry ! — marry 
a man older than your owm father ! ” 

“It does not matter to me how old 


118 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


he is,” said Amy, indifferently. “ He is 
kind, he is generous, he is rich, he is 
willing to take care of me, and Mariette 
and the boys. Consider what I am — 
think how few men would make such a 
proposal — and then say whether or not 
I should he mad indeed to refuse it.” 

“ Great Heaven ! ” said Hugh, aghast. 

“ And it has come to this — you will sell 
yourself! O Amy, for God’s sake, stop! 
Don’t do this thing! It will be worse 
than poverty and toil — it will kill your 
heart — ” 

“You are talking folly, Hugh,” inter- 
posed Amy. “ I have no heart to kill. 
Since you are my only friend, I will tell 
you why I have decided on this ; but you 
must not think that I can be shaken in 
my purpose.” 

“ I don’t need that you should tell me 
— I know everything,” said Hugh, “ and 
I see no excuse in any of it. I have been 
true to you through a great deal, Amy ; 
but this is worse — a thousand times worse 
— than all that has gone before. If you 
can make this mercenary marriage — you, 
so young, selling yourself so utterly for 
money — I shall feel that I have wasted all 
the love that I have given to you, and I 
will never again think of you willingly as 
long as I live ! ” 

He stood before her, white with pas- 
sion and indignation, and Amy looked up 
at him with a sadness which he remem- 
bered long afterward. 

“ Good-by, then, Hugh,” she answered. 

“ I have said good-by to all the rest ; you 
are the last link with the past, and it 
seems that I must leave you, too. I hope 
you will forget me — I am not worth re- 
membering — though I think you are un- 
just to me now. So it ends— all we hoped 
and dreamed. Good-by ! ” 

“ Amy,” cried Hugh, with one last, 
wild appeal, “come to me! I am young 
and strong, and I will work for you ? Is 
love nothing? I love you as nobody else 
ever has loved or ever will love you, I 
am sure ! ” 

“ If you were as rich as Mr. Trafford, , 


I Hugh, and said tJiat^ it would be enough 
to make me answer No,” replied Amy» 
“ You love me so much, that you would 
want me to love you in return ; and that 
I can never do. I have no love for any- 
body, and so I am glad to marry a man 
who does not ask, who will not expect 
it.” 

“And you are determined — you will 
marry him ? ” 

“ I am determined — I shall marry 
him.” 

“Then God help me! — it is good-by 
forever ! If I can avoid it, Amy, I will 
never see your face again.” 

He vanished from her side like a flash,, 
as if afraid to trust himself a moment lon- 
ger, and the door closed sharply. Sitting 
in the dusky twilight, with summer fra- 
grance heavy on the air, and the soft lus- 
tre of the “tender star of love” shining 
from the delicate sky, Amy knew that 
she had, indeed, said farewell to all the 
past. 

A week or two later — as soon as the 
doctor declared that Amy was able to 
travel — her marriage to Mr. Trafford took 
place. They were married early one 
morning, in the shabby little parlor which 
she was never to enter again, and the 
news fell on Edgerton like a clap of thun- 
der. There had been some talk of a 
charitable subscription for “ that poor Mr. 
Reynolds’s family,” and the well-meaning 
ladies who were engaged in this — Mrs. 
Lathrop at the helm — felt as if the whole 
fabric of social order was insecure, when 
they heard that the musician’s penniless 
daughter had become the wife of the 
wealthy Mr. Trafford. 

“Gone to Europe!” people said to 
one another in amazement. “ Taken the 
little girl with them, and that deaf ser- 
vant — sent the boys away to school — have 
you ever heard anything like it ? ” . 

Public curiosity was eager to learn 
how such an unexpected conclusion to the 
story of which Amy was the heroine had 
, been reached ; but the only person who 


EXEUNT OMNES. 


119 


could have gratified it kept silence in 
the most provoking manner, and only 
smiled when the matter was canvassed 
before her. 

This person was Miss Waldron, who, 
it may be added, came in for no little 
share of the gossip herself. As soon as 
Archer was sufficiently recovered from 
the effect of his wound to he moved, the 
general had insisted upon taking him to 
Cedarwood for country air and quiet; 
and, as people sagely remarked, it was 
easy to tell what that meant. It meant a 
season of such rare pleasure and repose 
in the young man’s life, that he would 
have liked to shower down benedictions 
on Marchmont’s head for having shot 
him. 

As the long golden days of June 
passed over the earth, it was nothing less 
than a delight to lie on the warm, dry 
grass, flecked by waving shadows and 
flickering sunlight, with Beatrix’s darkly 
handsome face bending over her work 
near by, or her stately figure moving here 
and there, framed by the gracious beauty 
of the summer landscape. 

It was such a day of “blissful June” 
as this when Amy’s marriage took place ; 
and Miss Waldron, who was the only in- 
vited guest present at the ceremony, hav- 
ing returned to Cedarwood, described the 
event to Archer. 

“ Nothing could have been simpler,” 
she said; “and Amy — poor child! — 
looked pretty, though pale as alabaster. 
I have never seen any one more composed 
in manner than she was.” 

“Was it the ‘stony calm’ one reads 
about in novels of brides who give their 
hands where their hearts are not ? ” asked 
Archer. 

“ Very far from it. There was noth- 
ing stony in her manner — nothing in the 
least suggestive of an effort — only this 
grave, quiet composure. I hope she will 
be happy, and I hope she will make 
Mr. Trafford happy, for I like him very 
much.” 

“ Doubtful on both sides,” said Arch- 


er. “I can see no foundation for happi- 
ness in such a marriage.” 

“I can,” said Beatrix. “I am sure 
Mr. Trafford will be kind in the extreme, 
and I think Amy has gained sense enough 
to appreciate his kindness and generosity 
as it deserves.” 

“ And you think a girl of her age will 
be satisfied with a mild mixture of respect 
• and gratitude for love? — or that a man of 
Mr. Trafford’s age will not be jealous as a 
tiger of a young wife ? ” 

“ Amy has changed — you don’t know 
how much she has changed ; and I hard- 
ly think Mr. Trafford is the kind of man 
to be jealous as a tiger under any circum- 
stances.” 

“You must be aware that youth is 
very elastic,” said Archer, who never 
failed to maintain his opinion to the last 
extremity. “Grief and disappointment 
have no doubt changed the girl, and made 
her seem subdued, but the effect will soon 
pass. If there is not the making of a life- 
long coquette in her, I am greatly mis- 
taken ; and there is nothing enviable in 
the position of a middle-aged man married 
to a young, flirting woman.” 

“ You are evidently determined to 
take a dark view of the matter,” said Bea- 
trix, smiling. “But I have great hope 
that the marriage will prove happy— all 
the happier, perhaps, for the calmness of 
sentiment on both sides.” 

“ You think calmness of sentiment de- 
sirable, then ? ” said Archer, with a quick, 
searching glance at her face. 

A slight increase of color came to that 
face, but she was too entirely mistress of 
hersdf to betray discomposure in any 
other way. 

“ Surely it is a good thing,” she an- 
swered. “ Surely, when we see the 
trouble that passion brings — the fever- 
ishness, the uncertainty — one may be par- 
doned for thinking calmness of sentiment 
'oery desirable.” 

“Yet,” said Archer, “it was only yes- 
terday that I found a book of poems on 
your table, with this passage marked : 


120 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


‘ He who for love has undergone I 

The worst that can befall, 

Is happier, thousand-fold, than one 
Who never loved at all ; 

A grace within his soul has reigned 
• Which nothing else can bring — 

Thank God for all that I have gained 
By that high offering ! ’ ” 

“ I suppose I marked the passage be- 
cause the idea is prettily expressed,” said 
Beatrix, with another blush brighter than 
the other. “You seem to have remem- 
bered the lines very well.” 

“ I have a good memory,” he an- 
swered, quietly. 

Then silence fell. They were sitting 
on the lawn, and the sweet sights and 
sounds of summer were all around them. 
A great pride- of-china tree dropped the 
perfumed petals of its purple blossoms on 
Beatrix’s head ; shadow and sunshine in- 
terlaced over her white dress ; bees were 
drow'sily humming on the scented air; 
light breezes came and stirred the foliage 
with a soft rustle. 

“How delightful this is! ” said Arch- 
er, presently. “ But I fear it is very de- 
moralizing. After having lived in fairy- 
land for a while, I shall find it hard to go 
back to the treadmill of daily life and 
labor. Yet it must be done — and that 
soon,” he added, as if to himself. 

“What is the need for haste ? ” asked 
Beatrix. “You have improved very 
much since you have been here, but you 
are by no means well yet.” 

“I am afraid I shall not recover my 
health here,” he answered. “ There are 
too many temptations to remain ill. I 
have decided to follow my doctor’s ad- 
vice, and go to the sea-side for a while.” 

Beatrix dropped her needlework with 
which she was occupied into the lap, and 
looked at him with her steady, dark 
eyes. 

“You have decided — since when?”( 
she asked. “ This is certainly very sud- 
den.” 

He moved a little uneasily. 

“I have decided. Miss Waldron; is 


[ not that enough?” he said. “I always 
arrive at my decisions without much de- 
liberation. You must not think that I 
fail to be grateful for all your kindness, 
and — ” 

“ I beg that you will not talk of grati- 
tude, Mr. Archer,” said Beatrix, stiffly. 
“ You force me to remind you that but 
for my unfortunate affairs you would not 
have incurred the wound which incapaci- 
tates you. If you wish to go, go by all 
means, but pray do not feel that any ex- 
cuse is necessary for doing so.” 

She took up her work again, and, as 
her needle began to fly swiftly back and 
forth. Archer raised himself from his re- 
cumbent position on the grass. 

“I see that you misunderstand me,” 
he said ; “ and yet I think you ought to 
know better — I think you ought to feel 
that, however ungracious my going may 
seem, it is a matter of simple neces- 
sity.” 

On Beatrix’s cheek a flush began to 
burn, but she did not lift her eyes, and 
her needle flew swifter than before, as 
she said, “I cannot perceive the neces- 
sity ” 

“ But it does exist 1 ” said Archer, 
with vehemence. “It is presumption, no 
doubt, in me to love you. Miss Waldron,” 
he went on, without giving himself time 
to think, “but since I do love you with 
all my heart, and since I have not the 
faintest hope of ever winning you, it is 
worse than folly in me to stay here and 
purchase brief pleasure by long and bitter 
pain. Pardon me for having made this 
declaration,” he added, after a short pause 
which no sound from Beatrix broke, “ but 
I was compelled to make you understand 
why I must go. Now you see it, of 
course, as I do ; and I shall leave without 
delay.” 

He rose as he spoke, and was in the 
[ act of walking away, when Beatrix’s 
voice arrested him — a voice tremulous, 
though clear and sweet : 

“Stop a moment, Mr. Archer,” she 
said. “When a man makes a declara- 


EXEUNT OMNES. 


121 


tion to a woman, such as you have made, 
he generally waits for an answer — does 
he not ? ” 

Archer turned quickly. “I did not 
think there was any answer possible that 
I would care to hear,” he replied. “I 
am not mad, Miss Waldron. I know my 
position in life ; I know that I have none 
of the advantages which the man who 
hopes to marry you must possess. I am 
poor; I am struggling; I am not fitted 
by nature to win a woman’s heart. I 
can only love you,” he said, with passion- 
ate bitterness, “ and what is that? ” 

She rose, and stood before him, proud 
and stately, yet with a sweetness on her 
lips and in her eyes which no one had 
ever seen there before. 

‘‘‘If you are not mad, you are blind,” 


she said, in a low tone of voice. “Why 
can you not — see? Must I answer your 
question ? Must I tell you what your 
love is to me? ” 

He looked at her as if he could not 
trust his eyes, as if he could not believe 
his ears. He was so shaken, so amazed, 
at this unexpected reply, that emotion 
held him literally motionless for a min- 
ute. Then he said like one who speaks 
with an effort : 

“Yes — tell me what it is to you.” 

She was the more self-possessed of 
the two, because she understood all that 
he felt, and the revelation of it was no 
surprise to her. She held out her hand 
quietly, but he never forgot the tone of 
her voice, when she answered with the 
word, “Everything.” 


PAKT II. 


CHAPTER I. 

AFTER TEN TEARS. 

The London season was opening brill- 
iantly, and the foggy island began to 
wear its loveliest attire of green, when, 
in a small but very charming house, over- 
looking one of the most fashionable streets 
of Mayfair, an American lady, who was 
something of a celebrity, took up her 
residence. 

The name of this celebrity was Mrs. 
Trafford, a beautiful and wealthy young 
widow, who in Paris, in Nice, in Flor- 
ence, in Homburg, and in half a dozen 
other places, was well known, and whose 
dresses, jewels, horses, dinners, and flir- 
tations, were topics of gossip, and the 
latter, perhaps, of a little scandal, wher- 
ever she went. 

But Mrs. Traflford was able to set such 
scandal very much at deflance. The worst 
of gossips could not allege anything like 
impropriety against her ; and her attrac- 
tions were so many, her wealth apparent- 
ly so great, that the minor transgressions 
of such a fascinating person were not 
held of much account. 

Exactly who or what she was, no- 
body was able to say with any degree 
of certainty, for she was not partial to 
her countrymen and countrywomen, and 
rarely associated with them — a fact from 
which unpleasant things had more than 
once been argued concerning her. | 

When a report of these things reached | 
Mrs. Trafi'ord’s ears, she only laughed — | 
a silvery, mocking laugh well known to 1 


all her associates — and went her way 
with a supreme indifference which served 
to secure her position better than any 
self-assertion could have done. Apart 
from her wealth, the causes which gave 
her admittance into many usually exclu- 
sive circles were not hard to trace. She 
possessed beauty so extraordinary, that 
painters and sculptors raved over the 
faultless outlines of her face and flgure, 
the exquisite tints of her complexion and 
hair, while her grace, her wit, her savoir- 
faire^ were hardly less remarkable. It 
became the fashion to know her — the 
fashion to praise her daring yet graceful 
charm of .manner and speech. 

Of course, no woman so endowed 
could lack suitors, and, equally of course, 
there were many people to call her a 
heartless coquette, and say that she lived 
only for homage and admiration. Num- 
berless were the stories told of the fate 
of her cavaliers — of her graciousness so 
long as they amused her, of her fickle 
caprices when they ceased to do so. It 
was at least certain that she evinced no 
sign of an intention to resign her free- 
dom for any one of them. 

When she first appeared in society 
she had propitiated Mrs. Grundy by keep- 
ing a chaperon — an elderly widow, who 
filled a seat in her carriage, or sat in her 
drawing-room and played propriety to 
perfection; but after a few years this 
lady disappeared, and her place was filled 
by a very different companion, a young 
girl, the sister of the fair widow, who 
added another attraction to Mrs. Traf- 
ford’s already attractive house. 

4 


AFTER TEN YEARS. 


123 


It would have been difficult to find a 
fresher, lovelier face than this girl pos- 
sessed — a face which would have made 
her a formidable rival to most women, 
but which, by the side of the elder wom- 
an’s regal beauty, was like a white rose- 
bud near a “queen-rose” glowing with 
color, full of fragrance. 

Such a comparison would have oc- 
curred to almost any one who saw the 
two as they sat together in Mrs. Traf- 
ford’s boudoir-like drawing-room, a few 
days after their arrival in London. 

“ I think we are fairly settled at last,” 
said the young widow, gazing meditative- 
ly out of the window at the green tops 
of the trees in the opposite park. “Do 
you know, Mariette, I am growing to be 
a little — just a little — tired of wandering? 
TVe have lived in so many places, that I 
begin to feel as if I would like a settled 
home.” 

From the luxurious chair in which she 
was lounging, Mariette looked at her sis- 
ter with a glance of surprise. She was 
purely blond, with limpid eyes of tur- 
quoise blue, and hair like woven sunshine 
— a mass of golden softness coifed with 
negligent grace above the broad, white 
brow, and framing it with delicate baby- 
rings, lovely enough for a seraph. Her 
complexion was “ milk and roses ” incar- 
nate — all creamy softness and delicate 
bloom ; while her pretty, tremulous lips 
parted over small, pearly teeth. 

“ I hope you won’t think of making 
London that home, Amy ! ” she said, with 
the least possible shrug of her dainty 
shoulders. “ I like it less than any place 
I have ever seen. How gloomy and triste 
it is, compared with Paris ! ” 

“Wait a little,” said Mrs. Trafford, 
with a smile. “That is one’s first im- 
pression, but it wears away after a while. 
I have been thinking for some time that, 
though Continental cities are well enough 
in their way, London, perhaps, might be 
best for our headquarters. But there is 
no need to settle anything, since we are 
fortunately free as air,” she added, as the 


expression of Mariette’s face grew slight- 
ly dismayed. “We will try one season, 
and then, if we don’t like it, nothing is 
easier than to take flight.” 

“I am sure I shall not like it,” said 
Mariette, with slight petulance, “and I 
think it very odd of you to entertain such 
an idea, for you have often said that you 
disliked all English-speaking countries — I 
mean, all countries where English is 
spoken.” 

“ That was because I disliked the idea 
of any association of the past,” her sister 
replied. “Bnt there is really no more 
danger of such a thing in London than in 
Paris or Rome. Moreover, I have learned 
to consider the feeling very foolish. No 
shadow could rise out of the past which 
would have power to vex or disturb me 
now.” 

“ I should think not, indeed ! ” said 
Mariette, nestling deeper into her silken 
chair, with a comfortable sense of perfect 
security. To her the past of which her 
companion spoke was no more than a 
vague dream. Luxurious ease, encom- 
passing beauty, absolute freedom from 
care — these things had made her life 
since early childhood ; and hence her 
nymph-like face was joyous as Psyche’s, 
her lovely eyes undimmed by the faintest 
shade of that trouble which is the doom 
of humanity. 

Mrs. Trafford’s face was different. 
Despite its wonderful beauty, its soft yet 
brilliant charm, no close observer could 
fail to be aware that this woman had suf- 
fered as well as enjoyed. In the depths 
of her changeful eyes the possibility of 
shadow lurked, and her rich, sweet voice 
had accents which were never learned in 
sunshine. 

After Mariette’s last words, silence 
fell — a silence which Mrs. Trafford had 
apparently little inclination to break. 
She lay back in the soft depths of her 
chair, a picture of marvelous grace in her 
exquisite toilet, gently waving a fan back 
and forth with one snowy, delicate hand 
— a hand fit for princes to kiss, and which 


124 


AFTER MANY DAYS, 


no one could fancy had ever dusted and 
swept and darned in those long-past days 
to which she had alluded. 

“ Aray,” said Mariette suddenly, 
“ don’t he vexed if I ask you a question 
—hut do you think you will ever marry 
again ? ” 

“ That depends altogether upon circum- 
stances,” replied Mrs. Trafford, without 
the least trace of vexation. “ If I could 
see clearly that I should gain anything 
by marrying, I might do so ; but I have 
never seen that clearly yet. In such a 
step I should have little to gain and much 
to lose. My position is now as well as- 
sured as I could desire, and I like the 
freedom of my present existence so well, 
that I do not think any life which could 
be offered me in exchange would gain by 
comparison with it. I am not injured 
because women who are envious call me 
an adventuress, nor because men whom I 
have rejected say that I have no heart. 
As far as they are concerned they are 
right; I have no heart — not the least. I 
like to be amused and admired, but such 
but such a thing as sentiment does not 
exist for me. If I ever marry it will be 
for solid advantages — advantages which I 
do not need yet,” she added, with a glance 
at her reflection in a mirror opposite. 

Mariette rose and kissed her lightly. 

“ I am so glad you have told me this ! ” 
she said. “ I have been wondering a lit- 
tle if our coming to England did not mean 
something of the kind, and — selfishly, no 
doubt — I did not like it. We are so 
charmingly situated as we are, that I 
could not welcome a possible brother-in- 
law very cordially.” 

“ And why should you fear such a 
thing — especially now ? ” asked Mrs. Traf- 
ford. 

“ Oh, I don’t know ; except that it is 
easy to see how much in love both Mr. 
Grantham and Colonel Danesford are — ” 

“Choose your terms better, petite^'''’ 
interposed her sister, with a curling lip. 
“ Boys fall in love, not men of the world 
like those of whom you speak. Mr. 


Grantham is a diplomatist of considerable 
ambition and small fortune, who thinks 
that my fortune — also my personal gifts 
of beauty, cleverness, and social power — 
might serve his ends very well. Ho 
doubt he is right. Ho doubt I should 
make an admirable trump-card for a man 
in his position; but I cannot say that my 
pulses stir at the idea of becoming the 
wife of a secretary of legation who is 
fiftieth cousin to half a dozen peers and 
peeresses.” 

“I certainly do not think it would 
be a brilliant match for yow,” said Mari- 
ette. 

“ It would not be a brilliant match at 
all. I should give much and receive lit- 
tle. Even without birth, I have a right 
to look much higher. Indeed, better men 
have offered themselves to me before 
this.” 

“Ah, I know that! ” cried Mariette, 
with a gay, sweet laugh. “You do not 
talk much of such things, but I see — I 
guess — a great deal.” 

“ More than exists, perhaps,” said her 
sister. “How, Colonel Danesford be- 
longs to another class. He is wealthy, 
he is the heir to a baronetcy, and he is a 
brave soldier. I like and respect him, 
and I think it a pity that he has suffered 
himself to become seriously attached to 
me. But one must take things as one 
finds them. He is an agreeable cavalier, 
and — On parle du soleil^ et en void les 
rayons f ” she added, with a laugh, as the 
drawing-room door suddenly opened and 
a servant announced — 

“ Colonel Danesford.” 

There entered a tall, soldierly-looking 
man, of six or seven and thirty, very 
much sunburned, decidedly handsome, 
with a firmness of tread and a decision of 
bearing very significant of his rank in 
life. As he advanced, there were a sup- 
pressed eagerness in his manner and a 
glow in his dark eyes which betrayed his 
feeling for the fair woman who rose to 
meet him graciously. 

“ So you have come to welcome us to 


AFTER TEN YEARS. 


125 


London, Colonel Danesford ! ” she said, 
holding out her hand. “ I was sure you 
would come as soon as you knew that we 
were here. Mariette and I were speak- 
ing of you a moment ago.” 

“I have been out of town until to- 
day, so it chances that I have only just 
now heard of your presence in London,” 
he answered. “ Of course I lost no time 
in coming to place myself at your feet, as 
our friends in Italy say. This is a most 
unexpected pleasure — one of which I had 
no idea when we parted in Rome.” 

Then he turned to Mariette, and, the 
commonplaces of greeting having been 
exchanged, the three fell at once into the 
easy talk of old acquaintances. 

“We have been in London exactly 
five days,” Mrs. Trafford said, in answer 
to a question ; “ hut we are so practised 
in the art of establishing ourselves in new | 
quarters — or, rather, we have a major- | 
domo who is so accomplished in the arib ' 
of establishing us — that we feel as if we | 
had been settled for months. What do 
you think of our situation ? ” 

“It is excellent,” he said, glancing 
around, “ and I see that you have made 
everything redolent of your presence. I 
could fancy myself back in your salon in 
Rome.” 

“Only that is no Roman sky,” said 
she, pointing through the window. 

“N'o more than Hyde Park is the 
Corso,” said Mariette. 

“I fancy, from the tone of that re- 
mark, that you do not like Hyde Park, 
Miss Reynolds,” said Colonel Danesford. 
“Have you been on the Row? Can we 
not have a repetition of some of our de- 
lightful Roman rides ? ” 

“Not readily, for we were always a 
partie carree in Rome,” replied Mariette ; 
“and where shall I find, in your great 
London, such charming cavalieri as were 
at my service there? ” 

“Five days more will answer that 
question, I am sure,” said Colonel Danes- 
ford, good humoredly. “We may not be 
able to furnish such picturesque cavaliers 


as your attendants in Rome ; hut, though 
Englishmen lack grace, they do not lack 
appreciation.” 

He glanced at Mrs. Trafford as he 
uttered these words, and smiling, she 
said: 

“You must excuse Mariette. Just 
before we left Rome we were both capti- 
vated by a young Spaniard who was of 
the bluest blood, handsome as a dream, 
and chivalrous as a crusader. He de- 
scribed his old castle in the Pyrenees so 
eloquently, that we were half inclined to 
go to Spain— but, instead, we have come 
to London.” 

“ And I think I may venture to say 
that you have not made a had choice. 
Have you been out much? Do your 
friends know that you are in town? ” 

“We have not been out a great deal, 
hut our friends have already begun to 
gather round us, and, after to-day, we 
shall scarcely have an evening disengaged. 
We have decided, therefore, to spend this 
evening in a way we both like — we are 
going to hear Nilsson in ‘Faust,’ taking 
the opera en connoisseur from the begin- 
ning. If you have no other engagement, 
can you not join us! ” 

If Colonel Danesford had any other 
engagement, he did not give it a thought. 

“I shall be most happy to do so,” he 
answered. 

“Then you will dine with us — will 
you not? We dine earlier than usual, of 
course. In fact, I ordered dinner for six 
o’clock.” 

Never did soldier yield a more ready 
assent to the voice of the charmer; and 
when, at six o’clock, they sat down, in a 
small but beautifully- appointed dining- 
room, to the most elegant of dinners, he 
felt himself a man to he envied. 

The air of wealth and taste which 
pervaded everything, the profusion of 
flowers, the admirable attendance, the 
two fair women in their rich toilets, all 
combined to fill him with a sense of har- 
mony and pleasure. He began to think 
that this was better than Rome. His 


126 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


foot was not only on his native heath — 
which is always assuring to a man who 
has position and ancestry behind him, and 
whose name means something more than 
the names of Smith, Jones, and Robinson 
— but there were as yet fewer rivals in 
his path than there had been in the Eter- 
nal City; and, though he knew that they 
would appear later, he also knew that he 
possessed the advantage of priority in the 
field. 

“Priority and some favor,” he said 
to himself — although common report had 
long since told him that there were few 
things so absolutely uncertain as Mrs. 
Trafford’s favor. 

After dinner, while Mariette retired 
to put a few finishing touches to her 
toilet, he found himself alone with the 
young widow, and he at once took ad- 
vantage of the opportunity. 

“ My sister desires very much to meet 
you,” he said, standing before her while 
she drew on a pair of long, primrose- 
tinted gloves. “ She will be in town next 
week. I think — I hope — you will like 
each other.” 

‘“You are very kind,” she replied, 
glancing up with easy indifference. “I 
shall be glad to meet your sister ; I think 
I have heard of her as a very charming 
woman.” 

“I will not venture to say what she 
has heard of you^^"' he answered. “ But 
it is enough to make her very anxious to 
know you.” 

If you have made any report, and 
if she has taken it au pied de la lettre^ I | 
fear she will be sadly disappointed,” said 
Mrs. Trafford, coolly buttoning her gloves. 
“I know that you are loyal and lauda- 
tory in the extreme with regard to your 
friends.” 

“ It would be impossible for laudation 
to exaggerate what you are,” he said, in 
a low tone. “Surely you must know 
that.” 

“I have a very good fund of vanity,” 
she said, laughing, “ but I hardly think it 
tells me anything so flattering. — The car- 


riage at the door, Johnson ? ” as a servant 
appeared. “Let Miss Reynolds know.” 

The last bars of the overture were 
being played when the two ladies and 
their attendant entered Mrs. Trafford’s 
box. 

Many glances were leveled upon them 
at once, and Colonel Danesford was not 
insensible to the distinction of appearing 
as sole cavalier of the famous beauty, 
who was looking even more beautiful 
than usual in a toilet of rich green silk, 
with quantities of costly white lace and 
emeralds at her throat and in her ears. 

Seating herself in the front of the 
box, she lifted her glass and swept the 
house in the few minutes which elapsed 
before the curtain rose. 

“I recognize a great many familiar 
faces,” she said, dropping it and turning 
to Colonel Danesford. “ What a very 
small world this is which we inhabit, 
after all ! Does it not strike you so ? If 
one were to attempt to escape from the 
orbit of one’s acquaintance, it would 
hardly be possible to do so.” 

“ Not for you, certainly,” he answered, 
smiling ; “at least, not in Europe. Per- 
haps in Australia or America you might 
appear without finding some one whom 
you knew ; but I sliould think it doubt- 
ful.” 

Her face changed a little when he 
mentioned America. 

“I have no disposition to make the 
experiment,” she said. “ I like to live in 
the heart of civilization, not on its out- 
I skirts. In Europe the higher classes are 
so thoroughly cosmopolitan and so very 
migratory, that, after a while, one will 
find little difference between society in 
St. Petersburg and London, or Paris and 
Vienna.” 

The curtain rose as she spoke, and 
she turned her attention to the stage ; for 
everybody who knew Mrs. Trafford at 
all knew that she was so far unfashion- 
able that she never went to an opera but 
as a genuine and devoted lover of music. 

This evening, however, she found it 


AFTER TEN YEARS. 


127 


impossible to preserve her usual atten- 
tion, for before the end of the first act 
her box was filled. 

The first person who appeared was 
Mr. Grantham, a blond young diplomate, 
who was by no means pleased to find his 
most formidable rival in possession of the 
field. Following him came a Frenchman 
of rank, who desired to renew his ac- 
quaintance with “ la helle madamey 
Then appeared another Englishman, and 
then an attache of the Italian embassy. 
Altogether, it was very evident that Mrs. 
Tratford’s popularity was not likely to 
wane in London. 

In a box just opposite her own, a 
party, consisting of two ladies and a gen- 
tleman, were meanwhile discussing her 
eagerly. The younger of the ladies was 
a rather pretty, brown-haired girl, very 
elaborately dressed, who scarcely paid 
any attention to the great prima-donna, 
so absorbed was she in watching Mrs. 
Trafibrd. 

“She is by far the most beautiful 
woman I have seen since I came abroad 
— I am not sure that she is not the most 
beautiful woman I ever saw ! ” she said, 
enthusiastically. “If I were a man, I 
should fall down and worship her.” 

“ That is going a little too far, Nelly,” 
said the other lady ; “ but I should like 
to know who she is.” 

“ She is a countess, no doubt,” replied 
Nelly. “ Very likely she is a duchess, or 
perhaps she is a foreign princess. She is 
not dressed like an Englishwoman.” 

“ Why not a royal princess ? ” suggest- 
ed the gentleman, with a laugh. “ I am 
afraid you will let your imagination soar 
so high, Nelly, that it will have a grievous 
fall when you discover who your beauty 
is.” 

“ I wish there was some one to tell 
us ! ” said Nelly, impatiently. “ How 
unpleasant it is to be a stranger in a 
strange place, when one wants to know 
anything! — Walter, don’t you think you 
might step into the next box and in- 
quire? ” 


“lam not ambitious of being regard- 
ed as an escaped lunatic,” replied Walter, 
calmly. “ Suppose you stop talking for 
a little while, and listen to the ‘ King of 
Thule.’ ” 

“ A king there was in Thule, 

Kept troth unto the grave,” 

the silvery voice of Marguerite was sing- 
ing, when the box-door opened and two 
men walked in. 

One was English, unmistakably — tall, 
well-developed figure, florid face, mutton- 
chop whiskers; the other was slender, 
dark-eyed, and handsome, a man on whom 
the stamp of T)lase was plainly set, and 
who looked every day of his thirty-five 
years. 

“ O Mr. Marchmont, what a pleasant 
surprise ! ” cried Nelly Paget. “ You said 
you could not possibly come, so I had 
no hope of seeing you.” 

“ I found the attraction beyond my 
powers of resistance,” answered the last- 
described gentleman, advancing, “so I 
have not only come myself, but I have 
brought Bowling with me.” 

“ I am delighted to see Mr. Bowling,” 
said Miss Paget, frankly. “You re- 
marked, the other day, that you knew 
everybody in London — at least by sight,” 
she added, turning to Mr. Bowling. 
“ You are just in time, therefore, to tell 
me the name of the most beautiful wom- 
an I have ever seen. She is in the box 
opposite.” 

“ Since I was sufficiently ill-advised to 
make such a boast, it is as likely as not 
that you have pitched upon some one I 
do not know,” replied Mr. Bowling, tak- 
ing from her hand the glass she offered. 
“ Where is this beauty to be seen? ” 

“ In the box opposite — immediately 
across the house. As if you could mis- 
take 1 ” 

“Tastes differ, you know,” said Mr. 
Bowling, calmly. “ Just opposite — By 
Jove ! you are right. That woman is a 
beauty — and a famous one ! I have never 
seen her in London before, but she is 


9 


128 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


well known on the Continent. That is 
Mrs. Trafford.” 

“ Mrs. Trafford ! ” echoed Nelly, crest- 
fallen. “ Not a princess — not even a count- 
ess, then ? ” 

“Not unless princesses and countess- 
es are made by right divine. In that case 
she might be one. She’s regal — isn’t she ? 
And, since you admire her so much, 
you may be glad to hear that you can 
claim her as a countrywoman.” 

“A countrywoman — of mine?” said 
Nelly, incredulously. 

“ So I have heard ; but I don’t think 
anybody knows much of her antecedents. 
She is a widow — young, rich, beautiful, 
clever. That is enough.” 

“I am sure it ought to be. What 
more would any one have? — Did you 
speak to me, Mr. Marchmont? ” 

“I merely asked Bowling for the 
glass, that I might look more closely at 
this wonderful beauty. — Thanks ! ” as 
Bowling handed it to him. 

Then he lifted and brought it to bear 
on the woman opposite. 


CHAPTER II. 

A SHADOW OF THE PAST. 

“You seem overwhelmed, Mr. March- 
mont,” said Miss Paget. “I am sure I 
don’t wonder. Isn’t she divine ? ” 

“ She certainly is beautiful,” answered 
Marchmont, slowly lowering the glass, 
which for several minutes he had kept 
leveled on Mrs. Trafford. “ Her name is 
familiar to me,” he went on, after a pause, 
“ and I thought at first she might be an 
old acquaintance of mine ; but, after look- 
ing at her, I do not feel as if such a thing 
were at all probable.” 

“I should not think there was. any 
room for doubt,” said Bowling. “ It 
would hardly be possible to mistake such 
a face as that for any other.” 

“ The question is, whether some other 


has not developed into this,” said March- 
mont, lifting the glass to his eyes again. 

The more he gazed, the more bewil- 
dered and incredulous he felt. Was it 
within the range of possibility that “little 
Amy Reynolds” had been transformed 
into this ? Such a change seemed to him 
absolutely incredible. He sent his mem- 
ory back over the decade of years past, 
and tried to summon up a picture of the 
girl with whom he had idly trifled when 
younger and more disposed for trifling 
than at present. But he could not re- 
call anything tangible, try as he would. 
The recollection of that youthful episode 
had been so persistently banished, and so 
entirely swept away by other impressions^ 
that, beyond a vague idea of a sparkling, 
Hebe face, the personality of Amy Rey- 
nolds had w^holly faded from his mind. 

“ It is impossible ! ” he finally decided. 
“ It is a mere coincident of name.” — Then 
he said aloud to Bowling: “ There is 
another very pretty woman in the same 
box — a pure blonde. Who is she? ” 

“I don’t know her at all,” Bowling 
answered. “ It’s a new face. Very love- 
ly — don’t you think so. Miss Paget ? ” 

“ I dare say I should think so, if the 
other peerless creature was not in view,”^ 
Miss Paget replied. 

“It is seldom that one woman ac- 
knowledges another woman’s beauty so 
frankly,” said Marchmont, turning to the 
girl with a smile. 

“ I was never envious of beauties — 
perhaps I made up my mind early to the 
fact that I had no beauty myself — but 
even if I were inclined that way, I should 
consider that woman far beyond the pale 
of jealousy,” she answered. 

“ No beauty yourself! ” he repeated. 

“ ‘ 0 wad some power the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as ithers see us 1 ’ 

You might change your mind on that 
point, and not malign your fairy god- 
mother so much.” 

“ Oh, I have estimated myself very 
exactly,” she said. “ I know so well 


A SHADOW OF THE PAST. 


129 


what I am — especially in the matter of 
looks — that not even your flattery, Mr. 
Marchmont, can turn my head.” 

“ I know that you are a very remark- 
able young lady in more ways than one,” 
said Marchmont, in a low tone. 

It was a tone which thrilled Nelly 
Paget’s heart, and deepened the color on 
her cheeks. Despite her better judgment 
— for she was a girl of strong common- 
sense — her fancy was very much taken 
captive by this handsome, hlase man of the 
world, and she was almost ready to resign 
herself and her fortune into his hands. 

That she was the possessor of a for- 
tune, followed as a matter of course, 
since she was honored by Mr. March- 
mont’s attentions; for we find that dis- 
tinguished gentleman as we left him — a 
fortune-hunter. 

It must not be supposed, however,' 
that in this interval of time he had not 
achieved partial success in his quest. 
Within twelve months after the Waldron 
fiasco^ he married an heiress of uncertain 
wealth and more uncertain temper, whose 
friends settled her fortune upon her so 
tightly that during her life it was more 
of an exasperation than an assistance to 
her husband, and at her death — she lived 
six years and died childless — it returned 
to her family. 

Thus, as he felt, providentially re- 
lieved, Mr. Marchmont, who had mean- 
while made some reputation in public 
life, decided to be more cautious in his 
next matrimonial venture. His ambition 
was as great as ever, though he had by 
no means sustained his early promise; 
and his private affairs were very much 
involved, so that a short cut to wealth by 
the road of marriage commended itself 
as strongly to him now as it had done ten 
years before. 

Having gone abroad — ostensibly for 
his health, but really to escape the mor- 
tification of a political defeat — he met an 
old friend in the person of Walter Paget, 
who was traveling in Europe, accompa- 
nied by his wife and sister. 


At first Mr. Marchmont scarcely no- 
ticed the latter, but he w'as presently 
struck by her vivacity and shrewdness, 
and, being aware that she was by no 
means an inconsiderable heiress, as heir- 
esses go, the idea of marrying her began 
to occur to him. 

It was an idea which received added 
force from certain pecuniary embarrass- 
ments which were thickening round him, 
and from the consideration that, though 
Nelly Paget was not one of the women 
who prove invaluable allies in such a fight 
as that which he was waging, she would 
at least assist him to the best of her abil- 
ity, and certainly never hinder him as 
his first wife had done. 

In consequence of this opinion, de- 
liberately formed and deliberately acted 
upon, he attached himself to the Paget 
party — that is, he discovered that his 
route generally lay in the same direc- 
tion as theirs; and when they decided 
to leave the Continent for England, he 
saw no reason why he should not accom- 
pany them. He did accompany them, 
and they had been in London three or 
four days when this rencontre at the 
opera occurred. 

The last act was in progress before 
Mrs. Trafford, who was accustomed to 
serving as a target for stares, observed 
the unusual attention which the occu- 
pants of the opposite box were paying 
her. It was Mariette who brought the 
fact to her notice. 

“ I do not think that, in all my expe- 
rience of staring, I have ever seen people 
stare as those over yonder are doing ! ” 
she remarked to Colonel Danesford, who 
was forced to content himself with lean- 
ing over her chair, while Mr. Grantham 
and the Italian attache monopolized as 
much attention as Mrs. Trafford chose to 
give them. “ Have you observed how 
constantly their glasses are leveled at our 
box?” 

“ Yes, I have observed it,” he an- 
swered. “ They are excusable in a meas- 
ure, since this is one of the first appear- 


130 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


ances in public of Mrs. TraflFord and your- 
self; but they should not forget good- 
breeding.” 

“Perhaps they do not possess any,” 
said the young lady, as she raised her 
own glass and turned it upon the box in 
question, taking a quick but keen survey 
of each face. “Yet they look as if they 
ought to possess some,” she said, “ and I 
have a vague idea that I have seen the 
face of one of them before — that dark, 
handsome man in front.” 

“He may be some cursory acquaint- 
ance whom you have met and forgotten.” 

“Perhaps so, but Amy’s memory is 
better than mine ; in fact, it is so good 
that she never forgets a face. I will ask 
her if she knows him.” 

She bent forward and asked the ques- 
tion, and Mrs. Trafford for the first time 
sent a swift glance across the glittering 
house. Her eye fell at once on the box 
which Mariette. indicated, and saw but 
one face in it — the face of Brian March- 
mont. 

On her part recognition was instan- 
taneous. This was not singular, since 
there had not only been no such change 
in his appearance as in hers, but the im- 
pression which he had made upon her 
life, and consequently upon her memory, 
was far deeper than any she had made 
upon him. 

It was the first time in all these years 
that she had seen any face belonging to 
the dead life of her youth ; and now, to 
see that face, above all others, brought 
such a rush of old recollections over her, 
that for a moment — only a moment — the 
whole brilliant scene wavered before her 
eyes, and she seemed to hear the orches- 
tra and the voices on the stage as from 
an immense distance. 

But, by a strong effort, she recalled 
herself, and, though unable to prevent a 
variation of color, she answered Mariette’s 
question composedly enough. “No,” she 
said, “he is not an acquaintance of mine.” 

Despite her admirable self-control, 
something in the tone of these words struck 


the well-trained ear of the man by her side. 
“Not an acquaintance!” Mr. Grantham 
thought. “ But that is not saying he has 
not been an acquaintance. Women like 
madame do not change color for a trifle.” 

Though she did not look again tow- 
ard the box where Marchmont sat, there 
was no doubt that Mrs. Trafford was very 
glad when the opera ended. The mere 
consciousness of being in the same assem- 
bly with her old lover gave her a sense 
of oppression akin to pain. The mem- 
ories that she had for years thrust away 
came back to her with such vividness, 
that she felt half inclined to question 
whether all that had passed intermediate- 
ly was not a dream. Wealth, triumph, 
homage, luxury — all seemed Just now 
less real than the recollections which she 
hated, yet could not banish. 

These recollections, however, cast no 
shade over her beautiful face, when, af- 
ter the opera, she entertained Grantham, 
Danesford, and a few other privileged 
visitors, at the most recherche of suppers. 
She was, on the contrary, even more 
brilliant, more audacious, more charm- 
ing than usual ; and Danesford, at least, 
fell more deeply and hopelessly in love 
than ever. 

But when all was over, the last guest 
gone, Mariette bidden good-night, and 
silk and lace and Jewels laid aside, Mrs. 
Trafford, in a robe de charribre hardly less 
becoming than the toilet she had taken 
off, sat in a deep chair before her mir- 
ror, and, while her maid combed out the 
abundant masses of her hair, allowed her- 
self for the first time to consider the 
meeting of the evening and all that might 
result from it. 

“It is strange,” she thought, “that 
my strong instinct against what Mari- 
ette calls ‘English-speaking countries’ 
should be Justified by my meeting, be- 
fore I have been in London a week, the 
first person associated with the past 
whom I have met all these years. I am 
not a fatalist, but it seems to me almost 
more than strange! If that man enters 


A SHADOW OF THE PAST. 


131 


my life again, it must be for a purpose — 
it must be that I may deal back to him 
what he dealt to me long ago. But I 
have no desire for anything of the kind. 
I would rather forget that he exists. To 
see him, to speak to him, to recall the 
hateful memory of that time, would be 
unspeakably painful to me. I am almost 
coward enough to think of leaving Lon- 
don. But that would not do, for it would 
look as if I shrank from meeting him; 
and I have no reason to do that. I 
scarcely think he will venture to seek 
me out. If he does, the consequences 
must be on his own head. — That will do, 
Celine,” she said to her maid. “ Put up 
my hair, and let me go to bed ; I am 
tired.” 

If Marchmont had been puzzled in the 
opera-house to decide whether Mrs. Traf- 
ford could be Amy Reynolds, he was stiU 
more puzzled, still more uncertain, after- 
ward. He decided again and again that- 
such a thing was impossible, only to find 
his mind going back over the same ground 
and debating the same question. 

Directly or indirectly, he had never 
heard of Amy after he received the news 
of her marriage to Mr. Traflford. Mow 
and then he had given her a stray thought, 
and wondered a little what had become 
of her, but no rumor concerning her had 
reached his ears; and it seemed, there- 
fore, too wild an idea for probability that 
the music-teacher’s penniless daughter 
should have bloomed into a social celeb- 
rity in the first capitals of Europe. 

Nevertheless, he could not banish 
from his mind the perfect face, the daz- 
zling presence, the high-bred grace of the 
woman whom he had seen at the opera. 

Before parting with Bowling, he ex- 
tracted from that gentleman all the infor- 
mation of which he was possessed con- 
cerning her; and this information, meagre 
as it was, filled him with a vague sense 
of aspiration. What a prize was here for 
a man who should be bold enough to 
grasp it! Following this thought came 


another, “ Why should not I be the 
man? ” 

Diffidence of their power to please 
any and every woman is not a failing of 
men in general, nor was it a failing of 
Marchmont in particular ; yet he was able 
to appreciate the presumption involved 
in this idea. He remembered the appear- 
ance of the men whom he had seen sur- 
rounding Mrs. Trafford, and he knew that 
to rival such men successfully would be 
no trifling task. 

Nor was it a task to which he serious- 
ly thought of setting himself. He only 
thought that, if circumstances should 
throw him in the path of the fair widow, 
he would feel inclined to put forth all his 
energy — to stake everything — on the 
chance of winning her. 

“Unless I am mistaken,” he said to 
himself, “ she is mistress of a fascination 
which would soon make a man forget 
everything but herself. I should like to 
come in contact with such a woman! I 
have never yet met one capable of inspir- 
ing that species of worship which borders 
on infatuation, and it would be something 
to feel, if only for the sake of a new sen- 
sation.” 

“ Did you dream of my beauty of the 
opera last night, Mr. Marchmont ? ” was 
Nelly Paget’s first question when they 
met at breakfast the next morning. “ I 
did. I dreamed that she turned out to 
be the princess I thought her first, and 
that she came and took me to drive in a 
green-and-gold chariot.” 

“ I did not dream of her, but of the 
person who I fancied she might be,” 
Marchmont answered. “ I mean ” — as 
Miss Paget lifted her eyebrows interroga- 
tively — “ that I dreamed of a girl I knew 
long ago who became Mrs. Trafford, and 
who, therefore, I fancied last night this 
Mrs. Trafford might be.” 

“But, as Mr. Bowling said,” observed 
Mrs. Paget, “how could you possibly be 
in doubt ? One sees such a face so sel- 
dom — ” 


132 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“I was in doubt because the girl 
whom I knew married very young, and a 
deluge has passed over my memory of 
her face,” he answered, carelessly. “I 
only know that she was very pretty, and 
gave promise of greater beauty.” 

“I suppose you were in love with 
her,” said Walter Paget, breaking an egg 
with the serious air which the operation 
demanded. 

“Hardly that,” Marchmont replied. 
“ But we amused ourselves with tolerable 
satisfaction to each other for a short time. 
I have not heard of her, however, in quite 
ten years. She may be dead, or widowed, 
for aught I know.” 

“What was her name?” asked Miss 
Paget, with interest. “ Perhaps your 
‘ early love with her primrose face ’ — had 
she a primrose face? — and Mrs. Trafford 
may be the same. If so, how delightful ! 
On the score of your old flirtation you 
can claim acquaintance, and introduce me. 
By-the-by, did you flirt with her, or did 
she flirt with you ? ” 

“ Nelly ! ” ejaculated Mrs. Paget. 

“ There is no harm in the question,” 
said Nelly, calmly. “In flirting, as in 
everything else, one party is generally 
active and the other passive; in other 
words, one is the flirter and the other the 
flirtee. — Which were you in this case, Mr. 
Marchmont? ” 

Marchmont was far past the age of 
blushing — from a sense of guilt or any 
other reason — but he anathematized Miss 
Paget in his mind, while he answered, as 
composedly as possible : 

“Of course I was the flirtee. From 
my trusting nature I could never possibly 
be anything else.” 

“ How odd that truthfulness of nature 
is one of the last traits Avith Avhich I 
should have thought of crediting you ! ” 
said Miss Paget, amid a general laugh ; 
“ but, of course, you know yourself best. 
You have not yet told me, however, 
the name of the girl who flirted with 
you ? ” 

“ I did not exactly make the statement 


so broad as that,” said Marchmont, anath- 
ematizing this very inquisitive young 
lady more and more. “Her name was 
Reynolds —Amy Reynolds.” 

“Amy Reynolds? ” repeated Miss Pa- 
get. “Tlie name has a gentle, guileless 
sound — perhaps because it resembles Amy 
Robsart. Notwithstanding your truthful- 
ness of nature, Mr. Marchmont, I am 
afraid you were not the flirtee in that 
afi'air.” 

“To a judgment pronounced on such 
accurate grounds I cannot possibly de- 
mur,” said Marchmont, smiling. 

“ Intuition is sometimes a short road 
to the truth,” said she, looking at him 
with eyes full of a laughing challenge to 
contradict her. 

But Mr. Paget interposed here with 
some plan for the day’s amusement, and 
the conversation, to Marchmont’s relief, 
took another turn. 

A day or two passed without the Pa- 
• get party seeing or hearing anything more 
of Mrs. Trafford. Their next glimpse of 
her was obtained in the Park, where they 
j were sitting one afternoon, when a quiet 
I but handsomely-appointed park-phaeton 
drew up near the railing immediately in 
front of their chairs. 

“ Oh, look — there she is! ” Nelly ex- 
claimed, eagerly. — “Now you can see, 
Mary ” — this to her sister - in - law — 
“ whether she is not as lovely by daylight 
as by artificial light.” 

“My dear Nelly, if you don’t take 
care she will hear you ? ” Mrs. Paget ex- 
postulated. “You know I only said that 
it was difficult to tell anything about a 
woman’s real beauty, when you have 
only seen her at night across an opera- 
house.” 

“ Well, now you can tell howYeal her 
beauty is!” said Nelly, triumphantly. 
“ She looks even more handsome than she 
did the other night.” 

This was a slight exaggeration, per- 
haps; but Mrs. TraflPord certainly looked 
very handsome, in a carriage-costume of 
pearl-gray silk, her fair face framed by 


AT LAST! 


133 


one of the most graceful hats ever fash- 
ioned in Paris, from which a soft, curling 
plume drooped on the rich masses of her 
•chestnut liair. 

Mariette’s costume, though less rich, 
was not less elegant, and its spring-like 
tints suited her delicate loveliness, which 
suggested all things fresh and dainty. 

It would have been difficult to find two 
more beautiful faces in all that stream of 
equipages, and the loungers of the Row 
manifested their appreciation by stares 
and comments uttered to each other. 

Among these loungers were several 
of Mrs. Trafford’s acquaintances, who soon 
gathered round her carriage ; and it 
chanced that one of them, in a tone loud 
enough to be heard by Nelly Paget, spoke 
to or of “ Miss Reynolds.” 

The girl started and turned to March- 
mont, who was standing near, but who, 
in talking to a friend whom he had en- 
countered, had not observed the drawing- 
up of Mrs. Trafford’s equipage. 

“Mr. Marchmont,’’ she said, quickly, 
“did you hear that? One of those gen- 
tlemen called the young lady with Mrs. 
Trafford ‘ Miss Reynolds 1 ’ ” 

“Are you sure?” said Marchmont, 
turning eagerly. “How do you know 
that he was alluding — ” 

Then he stopped, for he suddenly 
caught sight of the carriage and its occu- 
pants — of Mariette’s exquisite face under 
the shade of her rose-lined parasol, and of 
Mrs. Trafford, leaning back — 

“ With that regal, indolent air she had. 

So confident of her charm.” 

“ There was no room for mistake,” said 
Miss Paget; “I heard it distinctly, and 
the young lady turned in response. No 
doubt she is Mrs. Trafford’s sister — I 
think I see some resemblance between 
the two — and no doubt, also, Mrs. Traf- 
ford is your early love. Do, Mr. March- 
moht, go and claim her acquaintance, and 
say that you have a friend you would 
like to present.” 

She looked up in his face, half laugh- 


ing, half in earnest — wholly persuasive ; 
but Marchmont felt more singularly moved 
by this discovery than he could have 
imagined possible. There was something 
so strange in finding, thus elevated above 
him, the girl he had patronized and trifled 
with, that for once his ease and readiness 
in any emergency failed. 

“ I cannot venture to claim Mrs. Traf- 
ford’s acquaintance on a mere supposi- 
tion,” he said ; “ but I will go nearer to 
the carriage and see if she recognizes mo 
at all.” 

He advanced to the rails as he spoke, 
and finding a vacant place near Mrs. Traf- 
ford’s horses, he took his position there, 
and calmly fastened his eyes on the lady’s 
face. 

We all know the magnetism of an in- 
tent gaze, and it was not long before Mrs. 
Trafford glanced toward him and their 
eyes met. 

There was no wavering of the color in 
her cheek, no drooping of the fringed 
lids. Her brilliant, dauntless eyes looked 
at him for an instant as they might have 
looked at any other indifferent face ; then 
turned carelessly back to the man with 
whom she was talking. 

There was no room for doubt ; if this 
was Amy Reynolds, she did not remem- 
ber, or did not choose to recognize, him. 
Either idea was so mortifying to his 
vanity that he turned and moved abrupt- 
ly away. 


CHAPTER III. 

AT last! 

Among the throng in the Park that 
afternoon was a man who stood in the 
rear of the chairs, leaning against a tree 
while he regarded with an air of calm 
attention the moving stream of equipages, 
with their fair occupants, and the gor- 
geous young men walking up and down the 
Row, or lounging in knots near the rails. 
The sylvan distances of the Park spread 


134 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


around, the emerald foliage and grass 
making a beautiful setting for the brilliant 
picture ; the level sun-rays caught the 
Serpentine, as it gleamed under the fine 
old trees that fringed it ; and the air of 
the late afternoon was delightfully sweet 
and balmy. 

The man who observed all this with 
quiet, meditative eyes was not more than 
twenty-eight or thirty — a man with noth- 
ing strikingly unconventional in his ap- 
pearance, no unmistakable outward sign of 
Bohemianism about him — yet who mani- 
festly belonged to another world than this 
which was on dress-parade before him. 

Though not a man of fashion, he was 
plainly a gentleman, and his face pos- 
sessed an attraction apart from its good 
looks — though good looks were not lack- 
ing to it. Men and women, and even 
children, were always attracted by the 
frankness of his gaze and the genial sweet- 
ness of the smile which often curved his 
heavily-bearded lip. His features were 
more strongly than regularly cut, but 
were not altogether deficient in grace, 
and his brown, curling hair was pushed 
carelessly back from a broad open fore- 
head. 

“ What, Dinsmore ! is this you ? ” said 
a young man, suddenly passing before 
him. “1 wasn’t aware that you had be- 
come an habitue of the Row ! How goes 
it with the ‘ Duchess May ? ’ ” 

“ Not very well,” answered Dinsmore, 
with a laugh, while a stout, florid matron 
in brown silk turned and put up her eye- 
glass to look at him, plainly esteeming 
the acquaintance of a duchess worth scru- 
tinizing. “You know, perhaps, that it 
was not finished in time for the exhibi- 
tion. The fact is, I cannot satisfy myself 
with regard to the face of the duchess. 
I have painted in at least a dozen faces, 
and painted them out again.” 

“That’s deucedly unpleasant,” said 
the other, in a sympathizing tone. “ Per- 
haps you will find a face here that will 
serve as an inspiration,” he added, nod- 
ding toward the drive. 


I “ I was thinking the same thing my- 
i self,” said Dinsmore. “ But, although I 
have seen a score or two of lovely and 
high-bred faces, I fear I have not seen 
the Duchess May, nor any suggestion of 
her.” 

“Yonder is a duke’s daughter, and 
one of the beauties of the season; will 
not she serve as an inspiration ? ” 

Dinsmore glanced at the noble lady in 
question, with that quick, comprehensive 
artist-glance which takes in at once out- 
line, coloring, and expression, and shook 
his head. 

“Handsome and commonplace,” was 
his uncompromising verdict. “ Had she 
been the Duchess May, her ‘ Rhyme ’ 
would never have been written, for she 
would have married Leigh of Leigh in 
the most decorous manner from the be- 
ginning.” 

“Well, here comes another beauty 
and belle, 'par excellence^ whose ‘little 
hand holds muckle gold.’ Will she do ? 

“For the girl of the period — yes,’^ 
answered Dinsmore, looking at the bloom- 
ing heiress indicated. “For the embodi- 
ment of the beautiful and. the heroic, 
which I need — no.” 

“ Then yonder comes the woman you 
need — Lady Wriottan. No woman in 
London more admired ; and with reason. 
She looks like the daughter of a Norman 
knight.” 

“And would look so under any cir- 
cumstances,” said Dinsmore, calmly. “ A 
finely-chiseled face, but as cold as it is 
haughty. Some cold faces have possi- 
bilities of passion in them ; that face has 
none.” 

“By Jove, you are hard to please! ”■ 
said the other, who, it may be explained, 
was a painter also, but with more social 
pretensions than his friend. “ I suppose, 
by-the-by, you have seen Millais’s portrait 
of Lady Wriottan? What do you think 
of it?” And they plunged into profes- 
sional talk. 

It was in the midst of this that Dins- 
more chanced to glance up a minute later, 


AT LAST! 


135 


and the same instant he caught his com- 
panion’s arm in a vise-like grasp. 

“ Look yonder, Reade 1 ” he said. 
“ Who is that lady in the carriage which 
has just drawn up by the rail ? ” 

Reade stared round in not unnatural 
bewilderment. 

“I see a great many carriages and a 
great many ladies,” he said. “ Which do 
you mean ? ” 

“ Look a little to the right — there, 
Justin front of that plane-tree,” answered 
Dinsmore, hoarsely — “a chestnut-haired 
woman in a gray-silk dress and gray hat. 
Who is she ? ” 

“ Oh ! I see whom you mean, now, and 
I don’t wonder at your excitement— 
though you might remember that my arm 
is not made of India-rubber. That is a 
very famous beauty, my dear fellow, and 
she is known as Mrs. Trafford. Will she 
do for the Duchess May ? ” 

Dinsmore did not seem to hear the 
question, and Reade was amazed to per- 
ceive that the color had faded altogether 
out of his face as he gazed at Mrs. Traf- 
ford like one entranced. 

Finally he drew a deep breath, and 
said aloud, yet evidently to himself, “ At 
last ! ” 

“ At last ! ” repeated the other, too full 
of curiosity to be able to restrain the 
question which rose to his lips. “ Is it 
possible you know Mrs. Trafford? ” 

Dinsmore started at this, and seemed 
to recollect himself. 

“ No,” he answered. “ I have never 
in my life spoken to Mrs. Trafford.'''' 

“ But you’ve seen her before? ” 

“Yes, I have seen her before,” he 
replied; and, unconsciously to himself, 
there was the echo of a pang in his voice. 

“ Hers is a face one could not easily 
forget,” said Reade. “ I saw her in Paris 
two years ago, and I knew her at once 
when I saw her just now. There’s a fas- 
cination— a sort of personal magnetism — 
about her that even more than her beauty 
serves to impress her on the memory. I 
can credit that she is a veritable Circe.” 


“Is that her reputation?” Dinsmore 
asked, still gazing with intent, wistful 
eyes at the fair face so unconscious of his 
scrutiny. 

“ If you know anything of her, I’m 
surprised you don’t know that!'''' the 
other replied. 

‘ 1 saw pale kings and princes, too — 

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all ; 

They cried, “ La belle Dame sans raerci 
Hath thee in thrall.” ’ 

And that is pretty much what her cap- 
tives cry, I believe.” 

The careless, laughing tone in which 
these words were uttered seemed to jar 
on Dinsmore. He drew his brows slight- 
ly together and turned. 

“ Poor Amy! ” he said to himself ; but 
Reade did not catch the words. Then he 
added, aloud: “I believe I must go now; 
you’ve become such a man of fashion that 
I suppose you have cut painting for the 
present. But, of course. I’ll be glad to see 
you whenever you choose to look in at 
the studio. Good-day ! ” 

He nodded and walked away in the 
opposite direction from Mrs. Trafford’s 
carriage, and Reade stared after him for 
a second. “ By Jove, I believe the fel- 
low has known her, and has been badly 
hit, too 1 ” he muttered. “ Who would 
have thought it ? ” 

He strolled on leisurely, and, a minute 
later, was accosted by a man whom he 
knew tolerably well — the same Mr. Bowl- 
ing who was Marchmont’s acquaintance. 

I “Well met, Reade! ” the latter said. 

! “You are the very man I’ve been wishing 
to see. Don’t you want to be presented 
to a pretty, piquant American girl ? She 
is anxious to visit some artists’ studios, 

and, since I don’t know much about such 
1 ’ 

I matters, I want you to take her in 
I charge.” 

“ Thanks for your kind intention,” 
answered Reade. “ If she is sola., I have 
no strong objection to ‘taking her in 
charge ; ’ but if she is one of a squad, 1 
beg to decline the honor.” 


136 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“She is one of a party of three or 
four, all pleasant, well - bred people. 
Come, don’t be churlish! Do you see 
that brown-haired, well-dressed girl sit- 
ting yonder — no, more to the right ? 
That is Miss Paget. Pll take you and 
present you at once.” 

There was something in the appear- 
ance of the brown-haired girl in question 
which prevented any further demur on 
Reade’s part, and so it chanced that Nel- 
ly Paget glanced up as the young men 
were approaching, and, recognizing Bowl- 
ing, smiled cordially. 

“You find us quite forsaken, Mr. 
Bowling,” she said, putting out a small, 
gray-gloved hand as he paused. “Wal- 
ter and Mr. Marchmont have both van- 
ished, and left Mary and myself alone. I 
am glad you have appeared. I had ever 
so many questions to ask you about the 
notabilities and celebrities, until the ap- 
pearance of Mrs. Traflford put them all 
out of my head ! Have you seen her ? 
Isn’t she looking superbly handsome? ” 

“There can’t be two opinions on that 
score,” Bowling answered, smiling at the 
girl’s enthusiasm. “ I have brought the 
artist-friend of whom I spoke yesterday, 
to present to Mrs. Paget and yourself,” 
he went on. “ Will you allow me? ” 

Then the introduction took place in 
due form, and Reade was pleased with the 
fresh, frank young face lifted toward him. 
There was never any difficulty in talking 
to Nelly Paget, for she was clever and 
always self-possessed; therefore they 
were soon comparing notes on the brill- 
iant scene before them. 

“Yes, I have tried the Drive and the 
Row,” she said, in answer to a question 
of his, “ but I think it is more amusing to 
sit here and enjoy the show as a show. I 
find the driving tedious, and, as for the 
riding, I do not like the gaits of your 
English horses.” 

“Nor our English mode of riding, 
perhaps? ” 

“ I did not care to say that, but I con- 
fess I thought it. To the eye of one not 


accustomed to it, the English manner of 
riding is not graceful.” 

“ I have heard that charge made be- 
fore. In fact, it has only been a few 
minutes since I parted with one of your 
countrymen who does not hesitate to de- 
clare that the English mode of riding is 
only remarkable for awkwardness.” 

“ One of my countrymen ! Will you 
excuse me if I ask who it was? One 
meets a great many friends unexpected- 
ly-” 

“ I am afraid you will not discover a 
friend in Dinsmore, though he is a capital 
fellow. I have heard him say that he has 
been in Europe ten years, and he lives 
the life of a recluse — paints hard all the 
time, and is steadily advancing in ability 
and success.” 

“ He is an artist, then — like yourself? ” 

The young man laughed. 

“He is an artist, but not at all like 
myself. I am a trifier and idler ; he is a 
devoted worker, and in ten years more 
he will be at the top of the ladder of 
fame. Of that I’m confident.” 

“You are a very good friend to speak 
of him so warmly,” said the girl. “But 
will you excuse me if I say that I think 
it is very odd for you to talk of yourself 
as ‘ a trifier and idler ? ’ ” 

“It is generally well to speak the 
truth, is it not ? ” 

“But I meant that it is odd it should 
he the truth. How can a man with such 
a talent neglect it? — how can he have 
such a profession and fail to feel enthusi- 
asm for it ? ” 

“ Why are original sin and idleness and 
general depravity in the world. Miss Pa- 
get? ” asked he, smiling. “It is a shame 
for a man to shrink from the drudgery 
of his profession; but some of us do, 
nevertheless. I am glad, however, that 
the guild of artists has found favor in 
your eyes.” 

“lam very fond of artists,” she said, 
frankly. “ They are generally original, 
unconventional, and strikingly unlike the 
men one meets in ordinary society.” 


AT LAST! 


“May I venture to bow? I flatter 
myself that I am all those things.” 

“ I don’t think you need trouble your- 
self,” she replied, coolly. “ I should never 
have suspected that you were an artist if 
I had not been told so.” 

“I suppose, then, that I am not un- 
conventional enough. I should wear a 
velvet coat and a sombrero^ and let my 
hair grow long — should I ? ” 

He did not intend to be impertinent, 
but in a moment he saw that he had let 
flippancy carry him too far. Miss Paget’s 
face grew cold and haughty. 

“I am sorry that you are unable to 
distinguish between genuine unconven- 
tionality and afiected Bohemianism,” she 
said. Then she turned her graceful, silk- 
en-clad shoulder deliberately upon him. 
— “ Mary, what can have become of Mr. 
Marchmont?” she asked. “He went 
near the rails to see if Mrs. Traffbrd 
would recognize him, and since then he 
has unaccountably vanished.” 

“ I am sure I have no idea of what 
became of him,” said Mrs. Paget, looking 
placidly round. 

“ Has he discovered yet whether or 
not Mrs. Trafford is his old acquaint- 
ance? ” asked Bowling. 

“He is not certain, but he is strongly 
inclined to think that she is,” answered 
Nelly. “His acquaintance was a Miss 
Eeynolds, and I heard some one call the 
young lady who is with Mrs. Trallord 
Miss Reynolds — which is a singular co- 
incidence, to say the least.” 

“The young lady certainly is Miss 
Reynolds, and she also certainly is Mrs. 
Tratford’s sister,” said Bowling. “ I 
learned that not long ago. So the evi- 
dence of identity is complete.” 

“ Mrs. Trafford seems to have an army 
of old as well as of new acquaintances,” 
said Reade. “ I was standing with Dins- 
more — who is one of the very last men I 
should have suspected of knowing a 
woman of her stamp — when she drove 
up, and he was very much struck by her 
appearance, evidently knew her at once. 


137 

but did not know her name — at least, her 
present name.” 

“ What 1 the artist of whom you were 
speaking a moment ago?” said Nelly, 
turning round with complete forgetfulness 
of her vexation. “Did he tell you any- 
thing about her ? — who she was ? — when 
or where he had known her? ” 

“Not a word^ and it is really mere 
supposition on my part that he ever knew 
her at all. He said that he did not know 
her — that he had only seen her before ; 
but there was something so unusual in 
his manner, that I was inclined to suspect 
that his acquaintance had been closer than 
he cared to acknowledge.” 

“ But why should he hesitate to ac- 
knowledge it ? ” demanded Nelly. “ What 
a very mysterious lady Mrs. Trafford ap- 
pears to be ! ” 

“It’s hardly fair to bring Mrs. Traf- 
ford in guilty of mystery because Dins- 
I more chooses to be reticent,” said Reade. 
“ A propos of Dinsmore, have you seen 
his pictures at the Academy, Miss Paget ? 
They’ve been a good deal noticed.” 

“I have been to the exhibition,” Nelly 
answered, “ but I am not sure that I ob- 
served the pictures you mean, unless you 
tell me the subjects.” 

“The one which has been most ad- 
mired is really admirable. It is called, 
with an irony which even a German could 
hardly fail to understand, ‘ Die Wacht am 
Rhein.’ ” 

“Oh, yes, I remember it,” the girl 
said. “ It represents a noble old French 
chateau which the Prussians are ap- 
proaching, while in the distance appear 
the flames of a burning village. Nothing 
could be finer than the spirit of the whole 
picture, especially the hatred and scorn 
on the face of the lady, who stands like 
a very Marguerite of Anjou in the fore- 
ground, with her trembling children and 
terrified servants round her.” 

“ It is a scene from life, for Dinsmore 
was in France during the war, and the 
face of the lady is a portrait. The other 
picture is simply called ‘Wild-flowers,’ 


138 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


and represents a woodland glen with two 
figures — ” 

“Excuse my interrupting you,” Miss 
Paget cried, eagerly, “ but I remember 
that as well as possible, because it is a 
Southern scene in every feature. — Mary, 
don’t you recollect how I clapped my 
hands when I recognized the live-oak and 
the yellow jasmine? ” 

“ Indeed I do ! ” replied Mrs. Paget — 
“and how the people around stared at 
you as if you were crazy.” 

“ I have been intending, ever since, to 
go back and look at that picture again,” 
the young lady went on. “I shall cer- 
tainly do so now.” 

“ Allow me the pleasure of attending 
you, will you not ? ” asked Reade. “ I 
shall be most happy; and, since I know 
the exhibition thoroughly, I may be able 
to find out a few things that have escaped 
your notice.” 

“ That will be delightful ! ” said the 
girl, with her pleasant frankness. — 
“ Mary, have we any engagement for to- 
morrow ? ” 

“ Not that ! know of,” answered Mrs. 
Paget. “ W alter and Mr. Marchmont may 
have made some arrangement for us, how- 
ever. We must consult them before we 
settle anything — and here they are.” 

The two truants appeared, with no 
traces of guilt on their countenances; 
but Marchmont seemed a trifle surprised 
to see a good-looking young fellow, with 
a flower in his . button-hole, talking to 
Nelly Paget as if he had known her an 
age. It roused him to a realization of 
the fact that even here snares might be 
cast for a pretty young heiress, and that 
he was not making as good use of his 
opportunities as prudence seemed to de- 
mand that he should. 

“I really thought you had deserted 
us,” she said, turning to him with a smile. 
“ Is Mrs. Trafiford a sorceress, and did she 
spirit you away? — or what became of 
you so suddenly ? ” 

“ Mrs. Traflbrd is not in the least a 
sorceress,” he answered, quietly. “I did 


not think the occasion suitable for claim- 
ing her acquaintance, so 1 took a turn 
with a friend whom I chanced to meet. 
If I had fancied that you Tvould miss 
me — ” 

“I don’t think I mentioned anything 
about missing you,” she interposed. “ Let 
me introduce Mr. Reade, who has just of- 
fered kindly to act as my cicerone at the 
Academy Exhibition, where Mary and I 
are thinking of going to-morrow.” 

“I thought we were going to Wind- 
sor to-morrow ? ” 

“ Oh, I had quite forgotten — so we 
are! — Mr. Reade, have you any engage- 
ment for the next day ? ” 

“None at all, Miss Paget. I am en- 
tirely at your command.” 

“ Then the next day, at — But, stay 1 
I must ask Mary.” 

Consultation with Mrs. Paget resulted 
in Mr. Reade’s being asked to take lunch- 
eon with them at the Langham Hotel on 
the day indicated, after which they would 
go to the exhibition. 

Mr. Reade having accepted the invi- 
tation, Mr. Paget suggested departure, to 
which the ladies acceded, and the party 
separated. 

It was a peculiarity of Nelly Paget’s 
that, when she had once taken an idea 
into her head, she pursued it to the last 
extremity, thereby often desperately bor- 
ing less enthusiastic people with whom 
she came in contact. On the present oc- 
casion Marchmont hoped that she would 
drop the subject of Mrs. Trafibrd’s iden- 
tity ; but as soon as they found themselves 
walking side by side, she began : 

“ Mr. Reade says that the young lady 
whom we saw with Mrs. Trafiford is Miss 
Reynolds, and that she is Mrs. Trafiford’s 
sister; so that proves conclusively that 
the beautiful widow is your early love — 
does it not? ” 

“ I suppose so,” he answered, trying 
to speak carelessly, and not betray the 
irritation which he felt; “but my early 
love, as you insist on calling her, did not 
leave such an agreeable impression upon 


IN RICHMOND PARK. 


139 


my mind that I should be anxious to renew 
my acquaintance with her. In fact, I 
hardly think that I shall make any at- 
tempt to do so.” 

“Why not?” she asked, glancing up 
with a disappointed expression. “ Oh, ex- 
cuse me ! 1 fear I am very rude,” she 
added, with a blush; “but I do not un- 
derstand how you can resist the tempta- 
tion to know such a lovely woman.” 

“Can you not?” said he, looking 
down at her with an expression wliich 
long practice had taught him perfectly 
how to throw into his dark, handsome 
eyes — an expression which had done ex- 
ecution upon many susceptible hearts 
since foolish Amy Reynolds was beguiled 
by it; “but suppose there is only one 
woman in the world for whose society I 
care at present? ” 

She blushed again, but answered 
readily enough : “I cannot suppose such 
a thing at all. Boys of twenty feel that 
way, perhaps, but not men of the world 
like you, Mr. Marchmont.” 

“ I am a man of the world in my ca- 
reer, but not in ray feelings,” said he. 
“ I should like you to believe that.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t make an act of 
very implicit faith in it ; but, fortunately, 
my opinion does not matter.” 

“You know better than that,” .said 
he; “you know that your opinion mat- 
ters to me above all other opinions.” 

“Don’t talk nonsense, please!” said 
she, laughing. “ It really is not fair. 
You have so much advantage over me in 
the matter of experience, that there is no 
telling how far you might turn my head 1 ” 

“You are jesting, while I am in ear- 
nest,” said he, reproachfully. 

“That is certainly better than if you 
were jesting while / was in earnest,” she 
replied. “ I have no doubt Mrs. Trafford 
will in the end make you feel that— 

‘ After all, old tliing.s are best ; ’ 

and, in that case, it would be awkward, 
to say the least, to have given any alle- 
giance to the new.” 


“ The best way to make you under- 
stand how absurd such an idea is, will be 
to give you an exact account of my for- 
mer acquaintance with Mrs. Trafford,” he 
said ; “ that is, of course, if you care to 
hear it.” 

“ Don’t set me down as deplorably 
curious if I say that I do care. The fact 
is, that wonderful face of hers has made 
such an impression upon me, that I 
feel an interest in everything concerning 
her.” 

“Then I must understand that it is 
only on her account you feel interest? ” 

She glanced up, smiling. There is a 
spice of coquetry in every daughter of 
Eve, and she was sufficiently heart- 
free and light-spirited to display hers 
now. 

“ On whose else should I feel it? ” she 
asked. “Not on yours, when you have 
just assured me that it is ‘ absurd ’ to at- 
tach any importance to the matter as far 
as you are concerned.” 

“ It certainly is absurd when you im- 
ply that,- for the sake of a by-gone slight 
flirtation, I could forget — ” 

“ Like a man 1 ” she interrupted. 
“Never mind, we won’t argue the mat- 
ter. You shall tell me your story at the 
first opportunity, and I promise to give 
sympathy where sympathy is due.” 

I — ^ 

CHAPTER IV. 

IN EIOHMOND PARK. 

“Amy,” said Mariette, as they were 
driving out of the Park, “ I saw that same 
man this afternoon who stared at you so 
hard at the opera the other night. Sure- 
ly you must have observed him ! He 
stood by the rails and gazed at you — not * 
with an ordinary stare, but as if trying to 
attract your attention.” 

“ Yes, I saw him,” answered Mrs. 
Trafford. 

“And don’t you know him? His 


140 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


face is oddly familiar to me. I cannot 
place it — I cannot think where I ever saw 
it ; I have only a vague sense that I have 
seen it somewhere, at some time.” 

Mrs. TratFord hesitated a moment, 
then said, calmly: “You are right. It is 
a face that you once saw often and knew 
well. Do you remember a man named 
Marchmont, who was in Edgerton when 
you were a child? ” 

Mariette looked at her sister with her 
bright blue eyes opening wide. Allusions 
to Edgerton were very rare from Amy’s 
lips, and it was doubtful whether March- 
mont’s name had passed Jthose lips in all 
the years that had elapsed since the old 
life ended so utterly. 

“Yes, I remember him,” the girl re- 
plied. 

“ Well, this is the man.” 

“ Are you sure ? ” 

“ I am perfectly sure. He has changed 
very little, and I knew him at once.” 

“ Mon Dieu ! ” said Mariette, who had 
not been educated in Paris for nothing. 
“ How strange that you should meet him 
here ! And do you — will you recognize 
him as an acquaintance ? ” 

Mrs. Trafford made a gesture signify- 
ing indifference. “ If he chooses to claim 
my acquaintance, I shall not refuse to 
recognize him ; but, if he is wise, he will 
not attempt anything of the kind.” 

Mariette’s lips parted as if she would 
fain have said, “Why not? ” but she had 
learned that her sister would not endure 
questioning on her private affairs, and, 
not being very much interested in this, 
she closed her lips again, leaving the 
words unspoken. 

“You know we are engaged to dine 
with Lady Gresham this evening,” said 
Mrs. Trafford, when they reached home, 
and were about to separate for their re- 
•spective toilets. 

Lady Gresham was the sister of Colo- 
nel Danesford, who, immediately on arriv- 
ing in town, had called on the woman 
with whom her brother was so infatuated. 
This act was dictated partly by sisterly 


regard, partly by policy — for the beauti- 
ful, clever widow promised to achieve 
as much social success in London as she 
had done elsewhere — and partly by curi- 
osity. 

She was a woman prone to sudden 
fancies, and she went away from Mrs. 
Trafford’ s house in a state of rapture. 
From being a source of sorrow, her broth- 
er’s choice suddenly became a source of 
pride to her. She congratulated him on 
Mrs. Trafford’s beauty and grace and 
high-bred repose, as if he was already 
the possessor of those charms, and she 
assured her husband that she could not 
possibly have chosen better if the matter 
of choice had been intrusted to her hands. 

“I am very glad to hear it, my dear,” 
said Sir Charles Gresham, who was a 
model husband, inasmuch as he had long 
since learned the futility of disputing the 
ideas or questioning the theories of his 
lively, charming wife. “You have been 
so much distressed about the affair, that 
I am glad you have found the devil less 
black than you painted him — or, perhaps, 
I should say her^ in this case.” 

“I am justified in being distrustful,” 
said Lady Gresham. “The vague state- 
ment, ‘an American widow,’ gave me a 
dreadful idea; and then, somebody — Mrs. 
St. John, I believe — said that she was 
considered in Florence to be quite fast. 
But I don’t believe anything of the kind 
now.” 

Sir Charles looked a trifle quizzical, 
“lam becoming curious to see her my- 
self, since she has worked such a change 
in your sentiments,” he remarked. 

“You will have an opportunity to do 
so to-morrow evening,” Lady Gresham 
replied. “I have invited her to dine — 
herself and her sister.” 

“ She has a siste^r, then? ” 

“Yes, a lovely girl.” 

It was a very pleasant company — 
though somewhat exceeding the Chester- 
fieldian limit — which was assembled in 
Lady Gresham’s drawing-room tlie next 
evening when Mrs. Trafford and her sister 


IN RICHMOND PARK. 


141 


entered. The beautiful widow looked 
even more beautiful than usual in a gold- 
colored silk with a scarf of priceless black 
lace draped across its shining folds. Dia- 
monds encircled her slender throat, and 
shone in her ears and on her arms. Mari- 
ette was like a vision of a peri, clad all 
in white and silver — a costume which en- 
hanced her delicate loveliness to such a 
degree that one person, at least, thought 
her the fairer of the two. 

This person was the son and heir of 
the house — Stamer Gresham — young, 
pleasant, good-looking as men go, and 
not altogether devoid of an idea or 
two. 

“ By Jove ! what a beauty ! ” he mut- 
tered under his mustache ; but a lady to 
whom he had been talking overheard the 
words. 

“ Which do you mean ? ” she asked, 
smiling, for she was old enough to feel 
no thrill of Jealousy. 

“I mean the golden-haired blonde,” 
he answered. “ What a. charming face ! 
what an exquisite figure ! She is a per- 
fect picture.” 

“ She certainly is,” said the lady, ele- 
vating her eye-glass. “Yet she cannot 
compare with the other, who is really a 
superb beauty — and a beauty good for 
thirty years to come ! ” 

“Immensely rich, too,” said a gentle- 
man near. “ A fascinating woman and 
a consummate coquette. I am afraid 
Danesford will come to grief, as other 
men have come before him,” he added, 
lowering his voice as Stamer Gresham 
moved away. 

“ That will be a pity,” said the lady, 
in a sympathetic tone. 

Though a foreboding to this effect 
often weighed upon Colonel Danesford, 
he could not feel it at present. He took 
Mrs. Trafford in to dinner, of course, and 
so gracious and charming was that be- 
guiling lady, that he began to hope more 
than he had ever hoped before for a 
favorable issue to his suit. 

“I am so glad that you are beginning 


to like England,” he said, in reply to 
some remark she made. “ But you must 
not restrict your knowledge of it to Lon- 
don. You must see something of the 
English country.” 

“Yes; when the London season is 
over, I think I shall go to the lake-coun- 
try,” she answered. “I spent last sum- 
mer in Switzerland, and I do not care to 
go back there.” 

“ I wish I could hope to be your guide 
in Westmoreland. I know it well.” 

“Then be my guide — will you not? ” 
she said, smiling — and her companion’s 
heart leaped under the magic of the tone 
and glance. 

“You know that, if you chose to 
command my services, I would be your 
guide to the Mountains of the Moon,” he 
answered. “Pending the lake-country, 
however, we must have a day at Rich- 
mond. Have you been down there yet? 
No? Then let us make a party for to- 
morrow, if you have no other engage- 
ment.” 

“I have fortunately no engagement 
that matters, and it will be very pleas- 
ant. How about the party, though? I 
have rather a horror of anything like a 
large number of people.” 

“ So have I. Our Roman excursions 
were perfect, and, as Miss Reynolds re- 
marked, we were always a partie carree 
there. Shall we go to Richmond in the 
same manner? ” 

“ Yes ; I think that will be best. Who 
shall we ask to be fourth? Mr. Gran- 
tham would go, no doubt, but — ” 

“ I was about to propose my nephew, 
Stamer Gresham, for the honor,” he said, 
as she paused ; “ he is rather an agreeable 
young fellow, and, from appearances, I 
think Miss Reynolds and himself are in- 
clined to be sympathetic.” 

“ Is the young man sitting by Mari- 
ette your nephew ? ” she asked. “I have 
been wondering a little who he was. He 
has an exceedingly pleasant face. He is, 
then, Mr. Gresham ? ” 

“Captain Gresham of the Guards.” 


142 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“ Tant mieux! Like all women, I am 
fond of soldiers.” 

“ There can be no doubt that the sen- 
timent is returned by all soldiers who 
have come under your spell,” said he, 
smiling. 

Meanwhile, Miss Reynolds and Cap- 
tain Gresham were developing a fair 
amount of sympathetic tendencies. Mari- 
ette, notwithstanding her youth and slight 
experience, was by no means a novice in 
the art of beguiling, and, before dinner 
was over, “ her sweet eyes, her low re- 
plies,” had worked mischief enough in 
the young guardsman’s heart and brain. 

“I have often heard that American 
girls are charming, Miss Reynolds,” he 
said, at length; “but you must pardon 
me if I say that I had not the least idea 
how charming they are before to-night.” 

Mariette laughed softly. “ I should be 
dull with a hopeless dullness if I failed 
to understand what you mean. Captain 
Gresham,” she replied. “ That is a very 
nice compliment; but I don’t know that 
I ought to appropriate it on on the score 
of being an American. I left America 
when I was a very small child, and I have 
nevier seen the country since.” 

“Yet you have never been in England 
before ? ” 

“No, for I was educated and have 
lived altogether on the Continent.” 

“But I hope you like England?” 
This was said with an accent which 
seemed to imply that it was a matter of 
the utmost importance that she should 
like it. 

“ To be quite frank with you, I do not 
like it, though very probably I shall learn 
to do so. It is said, you know, that the 
things which grow upon one slowly are 
the things which one likes longest and 
best.” 

“ I am not at all sure of that! Some- 
times one conceives the strongest liking 
all in a minute.” 

“ And isn’t it rather apt to go ‘ all in 
a minute,’ also ? ” 

“ I don’t think so ; on the contrary, I 


believe that it often lasts longer than feel- 
ings based upon reason and — and — things 
of that kind.” 

She laughed again, and the young man 
thought he had never heard a sweeter 
sound. 

“We won’t enter upon a sentimental 
discussion,” she said, gay ly. “We have 
been told that the feelings are ‘ danger- 
ous guides,’ and that is, or ought to be, 
enough.” 

It was at least enough just then, for 
Lady Gresham rose, and, with a rustle of 
silken trains, the ladies swept from the 
room. 

When the gentlemen joined them, the 
Richmond party was definitely arranged, 
and, as Captain Gresham handed Mariette 
into the carriage in which Colonel Danes- 
ford had already placed Mrs. Trafford, his 
last words were : 

“What a delightful day we shall have 
to-morrow ! ” 

• “ If the sun shines,” Mariette replied ; 
“ but who can count on your capricious 
English climate ? ” 

The capricious English climate was 
good enough to smile upon them the next 
day, and the beautiful glades of Richmond 
Park never looked lovelier than as the 
long, golden spears of afternoon sunlight 
streamed into them and reddened the 
deep beds of fern where the deer were 
couched. 

Having driven to the Star and Garter 
and ordered dinner, Mrs. Trafiford and 
her party were strolling through the 
Park, and, as was natural under the cir- 
cumstances, the two couples had wan- 
dered somewhat apart. 

“ I am afraid I am neglecting my 
duties as chaperon,” said Mrs. Trafibrd, 
waking suddenly to a realization that she 
had seen nothing of Mariette for some 
time. “ Where have those young people 
gone ? This will not do ! ” 

“ I think they turned off in the direc- 
tion of one of the lakes,” answered Colo- 
nel Danesford. “Miss Reynolds has dis- 


IN RICHMOND PARK. 


143 


covered that there is some beauty in Eng- 
land, after all, and Stamer is only too 
glad to show her as much of it as possi- 
ble.” 

“ It was very thoughtless of us to sep- 
arate in this way,” said Mrs. Trafford, 
who felt a little vexed. “Had we not 
better follow them ? ” 

“ That would be the worst possible 
way to find them. The best thing to do 
is, to sit down here and wait. They will 
come back presently to the route from 
which they diverged.” 

Mrs. Trafford hesitated. For various 
reasons she did not desire an extended 
Ute-dAete with her agreeable cavalier; 
but, since there seemed little prospect of 
avoiding this under any circumstances, 
her hesitation did not last long. She 
stood for a moment irresolute, wdth her 
filmy, muslin draperies lifted in one deli- 
cately-gloved hand, then glanced up with 
her peculiarly charming smile. 

“If you think it will be best to sit 
down and wait, let us sit down by all 
means. I shall like a little leisure to take 
in all this wonderful beauty. See how 
the sunset light strikes those masses of 
splendid foliage, and with what a charm- 
ing effect the deer pass now and then 
across the openings ! ” 

“ The scene is lovely, look where one 
will. I knew you would enjoy it, be- 
cause I have often observed that your ap- 
preciation of natural beauty is greater 
than that of most people ; in fact, you re- 
gard such things almost as an artist does.” 

A subtile change — almost a shadow — 
fell over her face. They had seated them- 
selves under a massive oak, and, as she 
looked at the stretches of forest-distance, 
a wistful, absent expression came into her 
eyes. It was not often that any memory 
of her old life troubled her, but now her 
fancy went swiftly back to the far-distant 
and far - different woodland glades in 
which she first learned to regard Nature 
“ as an artist does.” 

“That is not singular,” she said, in 
answer to his last remark. “ I was once 
10 


associated very closely with one who had 
the soul and the eye of an artist ; and I 
have not quite forgotten all that he taught 
me.” 

Absurdly enough — as he was perfectly 
conscious — Colonel Danesford felt a thrill 
of jealousy. Of Mrs. Trafford’s past life 
he knew little ; of her former masculine 
friends, lovers, and associates, still less; 
and to be vaguely jealous of every man 
she chanced to mention would have been 
uncomfortable, to say the least ; but, in 
the present instance, there was more in 
her tone than in her words, and more in 
her face than in either, to make him sus- 
pect there was ground for jealousy. 

“ Artists are generally pleasant asso- 
ciates,” he said, trying to speak as indif- 
ferently as possible, “ and you have been 
living for years in an artist’s paradise, so 
that you have doubtless seen a great deal 
of the fraternity.” 

“On the contrary, very little,” she 
answered. “ 1 have never cultivated the 
society of artists of any kind, and the 
friend of whom I speak I knew long ago 
— when we were both little more than 
children.” 

“But you have seen him since? ” 

“Never. For ten years I have not 
heard his name, and I do not know 
whether he is alive or dead, famous or 
obscure. Sometimes I think I should 
like to know — for he was a good friend 
to me, poor Hugh! But then, again, I 
think that it does not matter at all, and 
that it is better to let him he dead to me 
— together with all the rest.” 

She spoke on an impulse, half absent- 
ly, half carelessly; and Danesford, who 
had never before heard her allude to her 
past, gave the words rather more than 
their due significance. As she said, 
“ Poor Hugh ! ” there was certainly an 
accent of tenderness in her voice which 
was rather depressing to her companion’s 
feelings. 

“ Hugh — whoever he may be — would 
be complimented if he knew how kindly 
he was remembered,” he said. 


144 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


She uttered a low and rather sad laugh. 

“You are mistaken,” she replied; 
“ but it does not matter. Let us talk of 
something else ; old memories are among 
the most stupid and most disagreeable 
things in the world.” 

“ Let us talk of ourselves, then,” said 
he, in a low, eager tone. “At least, 
allow me to talk of myself for once, and 
tell you — what you cannot need to be 
told, however — that I love you devotedly. 
I had no idea of saying this when I 
brought you here,” he added, quickly, as 
she started and looked at him reproach- 
fully. “ But, to be alone with you, and 
not speak, is impossible. I will not press 
you for an answer now, but I cannot let 
you remain in ignorance of my love. I 
wish I were able to tell you how over- 
mastering a passion this love is! — how it 
has filled and colored my whole life, and 
made everything else naught to me since 
I first saw your face — ” 

“ Ah, pray hush 1 ” said she, in a tone 
of pain. “ I am not worth such love. 
If you could know me as I am. Colonel 
Danesford, you would keep that honest 
heart of yours for a better woman. I 
am cold and fickle, vain and heartless. I 
deserve aU the hard things that people 
say of my coquetry ; and yet — I would 
have spared you, if I could.” 

“ I have no desire to be spared,” said 
he, quietly, but his bronzed complexion 
turned paler at her last words. “ I mean 
exactly what I say, when I tell you that 
I would rather know you and suffer than 
never have known you. I have loved 
you — I do love you, as in all my life I 
never loved any other woman ; and, if you 
are heart-free, I shall never give up the 
hope of winning you at last.” 

She did not answer immediately, and 
for a few moments silence followed his 
last words. "With her hands lightly 
clasped in her lap, she sat quite motion- 
less, gazing with unobservant eyes at the 
alternation of light and shadow in the 
beautiful scene before her. She was de- 
bating in her mind how she should an- 


swer this man who offered her so much, 
and who showed more depth of feeling 
and passion than she had credited him 
with. 

“ After all, why should I not marry 
him ? ” she was saying to herself. “ He 
is possessed of all that I have any right 
to ask, and he is more devoted to me 
than any one else will probably ever 
be.” 

While these thoughts were in her 
mind — though very vaguely, and by no 
means assuming the cast of a definite or 
even possible resolve — and while Danes- 
ford was watching her abstracted face 
with passionate eagerness on his own, a 
rustling step among the bracken near at 
hand made them both look up. 

A man’s figure appeared, thrown into 
relief by a flood of streaming, golden 
light behind, as he emerged from one of 
the glades and advanced toward the place 
where they were sitting. Since the ra- 
diance was behind, his face was in shadow, 
but every line of the figure stood clearly 
forth, and also a large square object — ap- 
parently a sketching portfolio — which he 
carried under his arm. 

Mrs. Traflford was glad of any inter- 
ruption, or pretext of an interruption, to 
end the conversation which had taken a 
turn so little to her taste. 

“I thought that might have been 
Mariette and Captain Gresham,” she said. 
“Since our waiting for them has not 
proved a success, suppose we go in search 
of them ? ” 

She rose as she spoke ; and the artist, 
who had not observed her before, started 
as the graceful figure suddenly stood in 
his path — the luminous glow falling over 
it, over the beautiful face and waving 
masses of chestnut hair tinged with gold. 

He paused for a second, motionless, 
staring as if he had seen a spirit; then, 
remembering himself suddenly, he lifted 
his hat, and, turning abruptly, walked 
away in another direction. 

“That fellow was certainly amazed,” 
said Colonel Danesford, with a laugh. 


“SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?” 


145 


“He was not expecting such an appari- 
tion, and it dazzled him.” , 

“Do you know him? Have you any 
idea who he is?” asked Mrs. Trafford, 
looking intently after the retreating fig- 
ure. 

“Not the least!” Danesford an- 
swered. “ He is some artist on a sketch- 
ing expedition, probably. Why do you 
ask ? ” he added. “ Do you know him ? ” 

“No,” she answered, slowly. “That 
is — it was fancy, I suppose ; but I thought 
he resembled the friend of whom T was 
talking when we first sat down.” 

“ The association of ideas very likely 
made you imagine a resemblance. Have 
you any reason to think that your friend 
is in England? ” 

“ I know nothing about him ; I have 
no reason to think anything of him^” she 
answered, almost impatiently. “ The re- 
semblance merely startled me; that is 
all.” 

They walked on in silence, for Danes- 
ford felt instinctively that it would not 
be well to resume the subject of his 
declaration, until presently Mrs. Tratford 
paused, with a laugh. “Yonder they 
are ! ” she said. “ What a pretty pict- 
ure ! — is it not? ” 

“A picture that might be painted, 
hiing on the Acedemy-walls, and called 
‘ Flirtation,’ ” said Danesford. 

Mariette and Captain Gresham, of 
whom they spoke, appeared at the end of 
a long green avenue, strolling slowly, 
wdth an air of preoccupation, toward 
them. The girl’s face was bent slightly 
downward, the young man’s was turned 
toward her ; bars of sunlight and shadow 
checkered the way ; the whole framework 
of pastoral beaut-y seemed to suit their 
youth and grace. 


CHAPTER V. 

“should AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FOR- 
GOT? ” 

The rooms of the Royal Academy 
were well filled when Mrs. and Miss 
Paget, attended by Reade and March- 
mont, entered them, on the day after 
their visit to Windsor. 

The young painter’s love of his art, 
and knowledge of it, came out strongly 
when he found himself with a companion 
so intelligent and enthusiastic as Nelly 
Paget. 

She frankly confessed that her oppor- 
tunities for art-culture had not been 
great ; yet her taste was exceedingly 
good, and her apprehension very quick. 

“ Tell me why it is a good picture,” 
she would say to him ; and she listened 
with the most genuine interest while he 
discoursed of distances and perspectives, 
shades, tints, and tones. 

This was uninteresting, however, to 
Mrs. Paget and Marchmont, so they did 
not always wait to get the benefit of Mr. 
Reade’s criticisms and disquisitions ; hence 
a slight separation of the party occurred. 
When they finally reached Hugh Dins- 
more’s pictures, Nelly and her companion 
were still lingering over one of Alma- 
Tadema’s paintings. 

“This is the picture Nelly was so 
much struck with the other day,” said 
Mrs. Paget, pausing before the one en- 
titled “Wild-Flowers.” “I should not 
have noticed — as she did at once — that 
the foliage is peculiar to our woods;- but 
I see it very clearly now. It must have 
been painted by some — Excuse me, 
Mr. Marchmont! Is anything the mat- 
ter?” 

Marchmont did not answer; in fact, 
he did not hear her. He was gazing at 
the painting like one who is both startled 
and fascinated. Nor was this singular. 

What he saw before him was a picture 
of the glen in which he first met Amy 
Reynolds on an April afternoon ten years 


146 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


before. Every detail of the scene was 
familiar to him ; but most familiar of ail 
was the lovely, flower-crowned girl bend- 
ing to look at herself in the crystal water. 

This was the exact portrait of Amy — 
a portrait which made vivid again all his 
fading recollection of her face, and sent 
a sharp thrill like a dart through and 
through him. 

There was another flgure — that of a 
boy — but only the back of his head and 
form were sketched, and he was thrown 
in such deep shadow that a casual glance 
hardly discovered him. 

As soon as Marchmont recovered from 
his first shock of amazement, he looked 
at his catalogue, and found exactly what 
he expected — the name of Hugh Dins- 
more. 

“ Of course it could be no one else ! ” 
he muttered to himself; and then he 
added aloud to Mrs. Paget: “Pardon me, 
but I am surprised to And myself unex- 
pectedly face to face with an old acquaint- 
ance. Does that girl remind you of any 
one whom you have lately seen ? ” 

Mrs. Paget began to think that her 
companion was distraught. She looked 
at the picture, then at him, then at the 
picture again. 

“ I — really — I don’t think it reminds 
me of any one,” she said, at length. “It 
is a very pretty face — very pretty ! Do 
you mean that you know the original ? ” 

“ I did know her very well, long ago. 
It is a portrait of the girl who, I have 
reason to believe, is now Mrs. Traflord.” 

Mrs. Paget stared. Before she could 
speak, a voice behind her said, quickly : 

“ Oh, how singular this is ! Why, it 
is Amy — Amy, as she looked when I was 
a child ! ” 

Marchmont turned, and faced a gold- 
en-haired girl, who was gazing at the 
picture with an amazement equal to his 
own. 

“I cannot understand it!” she said, 
and then she, too, looked at her catalogue 
and uttered a cry. 

“ It was painted by Hugh — our own 


Hugh! ” she said. “How strange — how 
very strange this is! — Captain Gresham, 
pray go and bring Mrs. Trafford here at 
once ! ” 

“And leave you alone?” asked Cap- 
tain Gresham, hesitating. 

“Oh, yes — yes! that does not matter. 
Pray go at once ! ” 

Her tone left the young man no room 
for demur, so he immediately went in 
search of Mrs. Trafford. That lady, at- 
tended by Mr. Grantham, who professed 
to be a great connoisseur of pictures, was 
standing with a doubtful expression be- 
j fore one of the latest eccentricities of the 
extreme pre-Raphaelite school when he 
I approached. 

“Miss Reynolds has sent me to beg 
that you will come to her at once, Mrs. 
Trafford,” he said. “ She has found a 
picture which has impressed her very 
much.” 

“With admiration, or the reverse?” 
asked Mrs. Traff’ord, smiling. 

“ Well, not exactly with either,” 
replied Captain Gresham, twisting his 
mustache. “ She seems to consider that 
the face on it is like yours, and she recog- 
nized the name of the artist. Stay! I 
will And it for you.” 

He took Mrs. Trafford’s catalogue and 
hastily turned over the leaves until he 
found “Wild Flowers,” when he gave 
it back, pointing to Hugh Dinsmore’s 
name. 

As her eye fell on it, the brilliant col- 
or of her cheek varied a little, and for a 
moment she was silent. Then she said, 
quietly : 

“ Yes, that is the name of one of our 
oldest friends. I am surprised — but very 
glad to see it here.” 

“May I inquire who it is? ” said Mr. 
Grantham. “ Ah ! Dinsmore. He is an 
American artist, who is coming some- 
what into note. I have heard of him 
once or twice lately. Do I understand 
that he is your friend, Mrs. Trafford ? ” 

“ He was formerly my friend,” an- 
swered Mrs. Trafford; “but I have not 


“SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT?” 


147 


seen him for years, and he has probably 
forgotten me altogether. Let us go and 
look at his picture.” 

When she came in front of it, how- 
ever, her composure, perfect as it was, 
gave way. As her glance fell on the 
well-remembered glen, and on her own 
girlish face, the bright blood ebbed from 
her cheeks, and a low cry broke from her 
lips. 

“Ah, how like it is! — ^how like! ” she I 
said. “ Our glen — our familiar glen ! j 
And my face, as if I saw it in a mirror as 
it was ten years ago ! ” 

“It is the face of a wood-nymph,” 
said Mr. Grantham ; “but the face which 
your mirror reflects at the present time 
has no need to envy or regret it.” 

She did not answer or heed him. She 
stood with her gaze fastened on the pict- 
ure, as if magnetized, while her mind 
went back to the old existence, until her 
present surroundings seemed strange and 
unreal. ^ 

That was the real life — the babbling 
brook, the drooping trees, the foolish, | 
willful girl in her Bohemian freedom. At ' 
least, it seemed so for a moment. Then 
she roused with a start, heard the voices 
round her, and remembered that Mrs. 
Traffbrd lived, and Amy Reynolds was 
dead forever. 

It was this moment which Marchmont 
chose to step forward. He had drawn 
back a little as she approached, but he ' 
felt that, if he meant to claim her ac- , 
quaintance at all, this was his best oppor- j 
tunity to do so. He therefore advanced, I 
and spoke in a tone so low that his words 
were only audible to herself : 

“ Will Mrs. Trafford permit an old 
friend to recall himself to her recollec- 
tion? We met for the flrst time in that 
glen ” — he glanced at the picture — “ and 
there is a singular appropriateness in the 
fact that it should be the means of our 
second meeting.” 

Instead of discomposing her, the sound 
of his voice seemed to steady her nerves 
and make them like steel. She turned. 


and it was Mrs. Trafibrd — the woman 
who had passed completely beyond the 
sphere of his influence — who now looked 
at him with steady eyes. 

“I remember you, Mr. Marchmont,” 
she said, quietly, but made no motion 
to extend her hand in token of recogni- 
tion. 

Her failure to perform this act of sim- 
ple courtesy, and the calm coldness of her 
words, placed Marchmont at an almost 
greater disadvantage than if she had de- 
clined to know him. Her manner seemed 
to erect a barrier between them which it 
was impossible for him to pass. Yet, af- 
ter a moment’s pause, he made another 
effort to do so : 

“It is a very great and unexpected 
happiness to me to meet you again! ” he 
said. “ You are so changed — so marvel- 
ously changed ! — that but for this picture 
I could hardly have brought myself to be- 
lieve in your identity with the girl I knew 
long ago in Edgerton.” 

She smiled slightly. 

“ I have no point of identity with the 
girl whom you knew long ago in Edger- 
ton,” she said. “I remember that she 
existed ; that is all.” 

“ And do you disown all the associa- 
tions of that old life? ” he asked, quickly. 

“They are nothing to me,” she an- 
swered. “ Ten years have passed since I 
saw a face or heard a voice connected 
with them. Yours is the first ! ” she add- 
ed, looking at him with a glance whiqh 
seemed to say “ You may judge, there- 
fore, how utterly you are without power 
to move me.” 

He plainly recognized this, and it had 
on him something of the effect of a chal- 
lenge. “I will move her yet!” he 
thought ; then he said : 

“ If you disclaim all identity with that 
charming songstress of the woods” — he 
glanced again at the picture — “you will 
at least for her sake allow me the honor 
of your acquaintance, I hope ? ” 

She bent her head, with the same 
graceful but unapproachable coldness. 


148 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“ I cannot refuse such a request. The 
honor of my acquaintance is yours, Mr. 
Marchmont, if you desire it. Now be 
good enough to tell me if you know any- 
thing of the artist who painted this pict- 
ure — my old friend Hugh Dinsmore ? ” 

“ I know no more of him than that I 
saw his name on the catalogue when I 
looked at it to leai-n who had — by magic, 
as it seemed — brought back that never- 
forgotten scene to me. I am in London 
as a mere bird of passage, and know 
few people.” 

‘‘ 1 must find out something concern- 
ing him,” she said; and probably March- 
mont had never felt a keener thrill of 
mortification than he experienced while 
contrasting her tone when speaking of 
Dinsmore with her tone in speaking to 
himself. 

After a few more words — measuredly 
cold on her part, very deferential on his j 
— she bowed in token of adieu, and 
moved away to where Mariette was 
standing with the two gentlemen in at- 
tendance. 

“ So your admirer of the opera proves 
to be really an old acquaintance, Mrs. 
Traflford ? ” said Mr. Grantham, when he 
found himself again at her side. 

“ My admirer of the opera ! ” said she, 
lifting her eyebrows slightly. “ Oh, yes ; 

I believe Mr. Marchmont is the same 
person whose persistent gaze across the 
opera-house was observed by Mariette 
the other night. Probably he was not 
sure of my identity with the girl he knew 
long ago.” 

“As you were not sure of his! I 
think you said then that you did not 
know him.” 

“I do not remember faces readily,” 
said she, a little haughtily, for she did 
not fancy the tone of his remark. 

She had never accorded to this am- 
bitious aspirant for her hand a sufficient j 
degree of favor to entitle him to presume ' 
in any way, and her quick ear warned I 
her that there was a shade of suspicion j 
in his tone. ! 


This suspicion was of the kind which 
a new lover always feels when brought 
in contact with an old one. Mr. Gran- 
tham was by no means in love with Mrs. 
Trafford in the sentimental sense of that 
term, but he was most sincerely anxious 
to secure the valuable aid of her wealth, 
her beauty, her cleverness, and worldly 
knowledge; and he regarded with dis- 
trust the appearance of a probable rival 
with that glamour of the past over him 
which is said — often erroneously — to be 
so powerful in its effect on women’s 
hearts. 

Nelly Paget, meanwhile, was over- 
whelmed with curiosity when she heard 
of the encounter at the picture. In the 
excitement of this new interest she en- 
tirely forsook Mr. Reade, and turned an 
inattentive ear to his art-criticisms. 

When Marchmont rejoined them after 
j leaving Mrs. Trafford, she at once pounced 
upon him, and, professing for the first 
time to be tired of standing, carried him 
off to one of the seats in the middle of 
.the room. 

“Now,” she said, as soon as they sat 
down, “ tell me all about it. Mary’s ac- 
count has been very confused, as you can 
imagine. Is that girl in ‘Wild-Flowers’ 
really painted for Mrs. Trafford? — Who 
is the artist ? — How did he chance to do 
it ? — And did she recognize you at once ? ” 

“ Which question shall I answer first? ” 
he asked, smiling. “Yes, the face of that 
girl is an exact portrait of Mrs. Trafford 
as I saw her first — in that very glen which 
is painted there.” . 

“In that very glen! ” cried Nelly, 
with her eyes like saucers. “ If you are 
not playing on my credulity — ” 

“ On my honor, I am not.” . 

“Then how romantic it all is! But 
who knew of it? — who painted it? Y'ou 
have not told me that.” 

He opened the catalogue in his hand 
and pointed to Hugh’s name, and as she 
I read it she uttered a little cry of surprise. 

“Dinsmore!” she said. “Why, that 
is the name of the artist of whom Mr. 


“SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT? 


149 


Eeade was talking that afternoon in the 
Park! Don’t you remember he said — 
No, I believe you were not there to hear 
him, but he did say that, only a little 
while before Mr. Bowling introduced 
him to us, he was talking to this Mr. 
Dinsmore when Mrs. Trafford’s carriage 
drew up, and he — Mr. Dinsmore — was so 
greatly agitated by her appearance that 
Mr. Reade was much surprised.” 

“ So the fellow is in London 1 ” said 
Marchmont, in a tone of disgust. “ I am 
heartily sorry for that. He knew Mrs. 
Trafford when they both were very 
young, and, as he exhibited some talent 
for art, a wealthy philanthropist sent him 
over here to become a painter. He was 
underbred and presuming in his boyhood, 
and is not likely to be improved now.” 

“ But how is it that he has carried 
Mrs. Trafford’s face in his memory so 
long? Was he in love with her ? ” 

“ Very much so, if I remember right- 
ly. Now that I think of it, I believe he 
was in that glen with her the evening I 
first saw her. So it is plain how he was 
able to paint the scene. ’ 

“It is altogether the most romantic 
affair I ever heard of! ” said Miss Paget. 
“ What an enchantress Mrs. Trafford 
must be ! lam dying to know her ! Pray, 
Mr. Marchmont, when you go to see her 
— you are going, are you not? — ask per- 
mission to present me to her. I don’t 
care ‘ tuppence ’ as the people here say, 
whether I am violating social etiquette 
or not. I must and will know her ! ” 

“ To hear is to obey ! ” said March- 
mont, smiling. “ However, I have no 
immediate intention of going to see Mrs. 
Trafford.” 

“But you must have!” cried Nelly, 
impatiently ; and he had no objection to 
being importuned to do as a favor to her 
that which he had already decided to do 
as soon as possible on his own account. 

The next morning his card was brought 
to Mrs. Trafford, who glanced at it care- 
lessly, and bade the servant say she would 
be down presently. 


“ So he will not let me alone ! ” she 
said to herself, as she sealed and addressed 
a note she had written. “Well, one often 
sees moths persist in burning themselves. 
If he persists, the penalty will fall on his 
own head.” 

Marchmont, meanwhile, was standing 
in the drawing-room, wondering if he 
was not dreaming. This Mjou of a room, 
with its luxurious appointments, its flow- 
er-filled balcony, its air of wealth and 
culture, carried his thoughts, by very 
force of contrast, back to the dingy, shab- 
by parlor in Edgerton, in which he had 
once spent so many hours with Amy 
Reynolds. 

The change seemed almost incredible. 
The girl who, ten years before, was so 
socially insignificant that his careless at- 
tentions were esteemed compromising to 
her, and whose highest ambition had 
been to become an opera-singer, was to- 
day floating on the topmost wave of life 
— young, beautiful, wealthy, fashionable 
— as far above him now as she had been 
beneath him long ago. The difference 
was so great, that it gave him a sensation 
almost akin to giddiness. 

“ It is a prize worth an effort ! ” he 
said to himself. “ If I can grasp it — and 
why not? Old sentiment is strong with 
women.” 

Many men lay this flattering unction 
to their souls, forgetting altogether that 
a spell once broken can never be renewed, 
a glamour once dispelled can never be re- 
stored, a fancy once forgotten can never 
be rekindled. 

Presently the door opened, and Mrs. 
Trafford entered, wearing an exquisite 
morning-dress of white muslin, needle- 
work and lace, relieved by cerise ribbons, 
her full yet slender figure girdled by a 
sash of the same color. 

She greeted Marchmont as she would 
have greeted any ordinary acquaintance, 
carelessly extending a white, slender hand 
sparkling with jewels. Her unruffled self- 
possession, her easy calmness, were not 
calculated to give him any assurance of 


150 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


the power of that “old sentiment” of 
which he had thought ; but some people 
are fertile in self-consolation, and he de- 
cided that these things were significantly 
favorable tokens. 

“You have changed very little, Mr. 
Marchmont,” she said, looking at him, 
with her full, brilliant glance, as he drew 
a chair near the couch on which she had 
seated herself. “It is seldom that years 
pass so lightly as they seem to have 
passed over you.” 

“ And it is still more seldom that they 
work such change as I find in you ! ” he 
answered. “ Pardon me if I say that, 
much as I admired my little friend of ten 
years ago, I could never have anticipated 
for her so magnificent a womanhood ! ” 

“ The change certainly seems to savor 
of enchantment,” said she, as her glance 
swept over her surroundings. “It is im- 
possible to express what I owe to the 
kind and generous friend who was the 
magician to bring it all about.” 

“You allude, of course, to your hus- 
band,” said Marchmont. “ The news of 
your marriage astounded and — may I 
add ? — pained me ; but I recognized then, 
as I recognize now, that you acted wisely. 
You were left unprotected, and I was, 
alas! unable to assist you; therefore a 
mariage de raison was your best resource.” 

“lam glad, even at this late day, to 
have the satisfaction of knowing that you 
approve of my course,” said she ; and the 
irony of her tone was so fine and delicate, 
that Marchmont more than half doubted 
whether it was irony at all. 

“I wish,” said he, eagerly, “that I 
might obtain your approbation of my 
course. I wish that I might hope that, 
by the light of worldly experience, you 
would judge it more leniently than you 
once did 1 ” 

“I was young and foolish — shall I say 
sentimental? — then,” said she, with a 
smile glittering in her eyes. “ I lacked 
worldly experience utterly. You are 
quite right; I should judge very diflPer- 
ently noit. I flatter myself that I am 


able to appreciate your motives altogeth- 
er at their just value.” 

“Ah,” said he, quickly, “it has been 
the hope of my life to hear you say that 
— to know that you appreciated the 
strength of the chain of circumstances 
which bound me. If I had been able to 
follow the dictates of my heart, life would 
have been very different ; for I, too, have 
been married since we parted.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said she, with the air of 
well-bred interest which people feign in 
things which do not interest them at alL 
“Is your wife with you? ” 

“She has been dead four years,” he 
answered. “ I am entirely alone in the 
world.” 

“ That is sad ! — at least some men 
would consider it so. Others like best 
to run the race of life unweighted. Un- 
less my memory errs, you were ambitious 
when I had the pleasure of knowing you 
before, and that is a passion which gains 
strength with years ; therefore you are 
ambitious still, and I hope you have been 
successful ? ” 

“I have no reason to complain of 
want of success, though I have necessarily 
encountered some disappointment. I am 
in Europe now to recruit my health, 
which has suffered from my exertions in 
public life.” 

“Then you Avill probable not be long 
in London? ” 

“ The length of my stay is altogether 
indefinite. I am in a measure attached 
to a party whose movements have regu- 
lated mine for some time. A propos^ 
there is one member of it who is exceed- 
ingly anxious to make your acquaintance, 
and hopes you will allow her to do so. 
She is a very enthusiastic young lady, 
who has been raving about you ever since 
she first saw you at the opera, a few 
nights ago.” 

“ I am not partial to Americans,” said 
Mrs. Trafford, with a careless shrug of 
her shoulders; “but I have no objection 
to knowing one or two, now and then. 
What is the young lady’s name? ” 


A VOICE FROM THE PAST. 


151 


“ She is Miss Paget ; and I think you 
may like her — if it can be safely predicted 
that one woman will like another. Her 
brother, with whom she is traveling, I 
liave known a long time ; he is lately 
married, and his wife is a very pleasant 
person.” 

“Altogether, you fancy that I would 
not regret breaking through my rule in 
favor of the Pagets? ” said she, with a 
smile. “I suppose they are staying at 
the Langham Hotel, where Americans 
mostly resort? If I can find time, I shall 
not mind dropping a card and asking 
them to dine, as soon as I can set a day. 
I may count on you for the occasion, I 
suppose, Mr. Marchmont ? ” 

“With the greatest pleasure! But 
may I not hope to see you again before 
then?” 

“ I hardly think so. Engagements 
multiply around me, and, although I am 
very well seasoned to dissipation, I begin 
to think that a London season eclipses all 
that I have hitherto known in that line.” 

Silence fell for a moment, and March- 
mont felt that he ought to go, yet he also 
felt very much averse to doing so. 

“ I am told that the young lady whom 
I have twice seen with you is your sister,” 
he said. “ She must be my little friend 
of old, who was then Mariette, and is 
now transformed into Miss Reynolds? ” 

“Yes, it is Mariette,” Mrs. TraJfford 
answered. “ She is a very charming 
companion for me, and I hope I may 
keep her for some time to come.” 

“ I should not fancy that it would be 
wise to count on such a thing, unless 
‘ some time to come ’ is a period of very 
limited duration.” 

“ On the contrary, it is a period of 
i^nlimited duration, I hope ! ” she an- 
swered. 

“ Subject only, I presume, to the limit 
of those two most uncertain arbiters of 
human life — fate and a woman’s caprice ? ” 

“ That is understood, of course ! 
Nothing is absolutely fixed, save death 
and taxation, I believe; and I am far 


I from claiming for my plans and fancies 
! exemption from the law of possible 
: change.” 

I “It is seldom a woman is so free, and, 
I may add, so self-sustaining, as to have 
, only her own plans and fancies for 
I guides,” said he. 

I She smiled serenely, 
j “ I find the freedom very agreeable, 
j and my self-sustaining power is fortu- 
1 nately fully equal to the demand imposed 
* upon it. Since you are in London as 
a tourist, I suppose you have seen all the 
regulation - sights ? ” she added, with a 
change of subject which made him feel as 
if he were thrust away at arm’s-length. 
“Have you seen Patti? — and what do you 
think of this new tenor, over whom all 

I * 

I the world is raving ? ” 

I Marchmont responded suitably, and, 
after a few more commonplaces on both 
sides. Lady Gresham was announced, and 
he took his departure, meditating, as he 
went, on the wide gulf which yawned 
between Amy Reynolds and Mrs. Traf- 
ford. 


CHAPTER YI. 

A VOICE FROM THE PAST. 

“By Jove! Dinsmore, your picture 
has made a pretty commotion ? Have you 
heard of it ? ” 

It was Reade who asked the question, 
as he entered his friend’s studio a day or 
two after the scene in the Royal Acade- 
my and found the latter hard at work. 

Dinsmore did not look up from the 
! canvas over which his brush was moving 
back and forth, nor did his somewhat 
impassive face betray any sign of sur- 
prise. 

“ I suppose I know to what you are 
alluding,” he replied. “ Mrs. Trafi'ord has 
recognized the face on the picture as a 
likeness of herself in her girlhood. But, 
pray, how did you come to know any- 
thing of the matter ? ” 


162 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“ A fine question to ask, when I knew 
all about it before you did ! I was at the 
Academy that day with the American 
party I mentioned to you. By-the-by, 
that Miss Paget is a delightfully jolly 
girl ! ” 

“ She would be gratified, no doubt, if 
she knew the form your commendation 
takes ! And so you were at the Academy 
that day ? But I don’t see how it follows 
that you were aware of Mrs. Trafford’s 
recognition of the picture.” 

“It follows in this way: that Mrs. 
Trafford was not the first person who 
recognized it. Do you know — have you 
ever known — a man named March- 
mont ? ” I 

Dinsmore now turned, astonishment | 
evident on his face, while his brows drew j 
darkly together. j 

“ I once knew a man of the name,” he 
said. “ What of him ? ” 

“ Only that he is with the Paget party 
— as a suitor of Miss Paget, I suspect — 
and it was he who first recognized the 
girl in ‘Wild-Flowers’ to be drawn for 
Mrs. Trafford.” 

Dinsmore muttered something which 
might or might not have been a benedic- 
tion, and after a moment’s pause the other 
went on : 

“Miss Paget and myself were unluck- 
ily loitering behind when the recognition 
took place. From Mrs. Paget’s account, 
it must have been rather dramatic. First, 
Mr. Marchmont recognized the likeness. 
Then, Miss Reynolds — Mrs. Trafford’s sis- 
ter, you know — who chanced to come up 
at the same time, was struck by it. 
Lastly, Mrs. Trafford herself was sum- 
moned to the spot by a special messen- 
ger sent by her sister, and at once iden- 
tified her own face. On the strength of 
this, her acquaintance was at once claimed 
by Marchmont, who, it seems, had before 
been doubtful whether he had known her 
or not.” 

A deep flush mounted to Dinsmore’s 
face. 

“ The insolent puppy ! ” he said, be- i 


tween his closely-set teeth. “And did 
she recognize him ? ” 

“Yes, she recognized him. It seems 
he had been talking a good deal of her 
having been his first love, or something 
of the kind, and Miss Paget’s interest was 
very much roused. As soon as she heard 
of the meeting at the picture she was full 
of excitement, cross-questioned me as to 
how you came to paint Mrs. Trafford’s 
portrait, and finally carried off March- 
mont as soon as she could to cross-ques- 
tion him about the whole affair.” 

“She must be very much given to in- 
terfering with matters which don’t con- 
cern her! A woman of that kind is my 
detestation ! ” 

“ I don’t think Miss Paget would be 
your detestation if you knew her. In 
fact, I’m sure you’d like her, she is so 
pleasant and unaffected, and her curios- 
ity is natural considering her age and her 
vivacity. Suppose you let me present 
you ? Being a countryman, she would be 
charmed to know you.” 

“ Charmed to have an opportunity to 
cross-question me, I have no doubt 1 So 
you will allow me to decline, with thanks. 
Besides, what you have said of March- 
mont is enough. I would not make the 
acquaintance of a houri, if to know her 
would involve meeting him.” 

Reade looked at the speaker for a mo- 
ment with a rather keen scrutiny. Then 
he said: “It is odd that, agreeable and 
well-bred as Marchmont is, I should from 
the first have felt a sort of distrust of him. 
I liked the rest of them so much — they 
are people that you feel to be honest and 
genial to the core — that this instinct was 
the more marked with regard to him. 
He is very much of a courtier, smooth 
and supple, and all that sort of thing — is 
he not ? ” 

“ He is a dishonorable Scoundrel ! ” 
said Dinsmore, emphatically. “That I 
know; and if this Miss Paget, of whom 
you talk, is going to marry him, I am sin- 
cerely sorry for her ! ” 

“ She certainly is a very nice little 


A VOICE FROM THE PAST. 


153 


thing to be thrown away on a dishonor- 
able scoundrel ! ” said Reade, meditatively. 
“ If there is no other way of saving her 
from such a fate, I should not mind mar- 
rying her myself ! ” 

“ It is not a bad idea ; only you would 
have no chance at all. An honest fellow 
never succeeds in comparison with a man 
like Marchmont.” 

The bitterness of the tone in which 
those words were uttered did not escape 
Reade’s ear, and he drew his conclusions 
therefrom with tolerable accuracy. 

“At least it would do no harm to 
try! ” he said, lightly. “She is remark- 
ably attractive — not a beauty, but win- 
some, sensible, and good-tempered.” 

“Then by all means marry her — if 
you can I A woman of that description 
is worth a dozen beauties.” 

“ That is very true ; but, when it comes 
to the serious question of matrimony, 
there are other matters to be considered, 
besides a piquant face or the rivalry of 
the distinguished Mr. Marchmont — for I 
understand that he is distinguished in 
America.” 

“He is a third-rate politician, with 
some showy qualities, but no real ability 
or sagacity — if you consider that a repu- 
tation of that kind constitutes distinc- 
tion.” 

“ It answers very well to travel upon. 
But* the matters to be considered, of which 
I spoke, are the very mundane things 
called pounds, shillings, and pence. If a 
man can barely live upon his income, he 
must be a lunatic if he thinks of doubling 
his responsibilities upon it — must he 
not?” 

“I am not sure. To double your re- 
sponsibilities might make you paint a few 
pictures — which it is clear you will not 
do without a stimulus of some kind. I 
fancy, however, that in this instance you 
would be more likely to double your 
income than your responsibilities. If 
Marchmont is in this young lady’s train, 
it follows of necessity that she must be 
an heiress.” 


“Indeed! That would put another 
complexion upon the affair. I have al- 
ways sternly abjured heiresses who are 
not nice girls ; but a nice girl who is an 
heiress is a phenomenon before which I 
should bow at once.” 

“ I think you may bow here without 
loss of time, then. Marchmont was a 
fortune-hunter ten years ago, and men 
are not likely to become more, disinter- 
ested as they grow older.” 

“ Very well, then. I shall cry, ‘ Reade, 
to the rescue ! ’ and enter the lists against 
your distinguished compatriot without 
loss of time. Probably he will transfer 
his attentions to the fascinating Mrs. 
Trafford, since the spell of old association 
is in her favor. Did I understand you to 
say that there was once a love-affair be- 
tween them ? ” 

“You understood me to say nothing 
whatever about Mrs. Trafford,” responded 
Dinsmore, almost sternly. 

Reade’s manner changed in a moment 
from jesting to earnest. 

“ I beg pardon ! ” he said. “ I had no 
intention whatever of trying to force your 
confidence. It was from Miss Paget, of 
course, that I heard the report to which 
I alluded.” 

There followed a short silence ; then 
Dinsmore threw down his brush, and 
turned, with something of impatience in 
his manner : 

“If I have not mentioned anything 
about my pa'st acquaintance with Mrs. 
Trafford,” he said, “ it is simply because 
the subject is painful to me, and not be- 
cause there is any reason for mystery at- 
tached to it. When we were both very 
young, I knew her ; but our paths in life 
parted ten years ago, and I have not seen 
her face since then until the afternoon of 
which you know, in the Park. It was 
by the merest accident that I came to 
paint that picture this spring. I chanced, 
one day, to be looking over an old sketch- 
book, and there I found the outlines of 
the scene sketched from life. Somehow 
the fancy seized me to elaborate it into a 


154 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


painting, and I did so, never dreaming 
that it would meet her eye, or the eye of 
any one else who could identify it. If I 
had expected such a thing, the picture 
should never have left my studio. But 
how could I imagine that, after ten years, 
the people best able to identify it would 
meet here in London ? ” 

“ It is singular ! ” said Reade. “ It 
makes one think of those people Dickens 
wrote of, who are journeying over land 
and sea to meet one. I don’t express the 
idea very clearly, but you know what I 
mean.” 

“ I would have cut it into shreds if I 
had imagined, even indirectly, that it was 
likely to be the means of bringing March - 
mont again into her life ! ” Dinsmore went 
on, as if speaking to himself. 

“ But will it not bring you again into 
her life ? ” Reade could not refrain from 
saving. “With such an excellent oppor- 
tunity, you surely will renew your old 
acquaintance ! ” 

Dinsmore shook his head decidedly. 
“ I have told you that our paths in life 
parted, and they have diverged too widely 
now for any acquaintance between Mrs. 
Trafford and myself to be pleasant or 
profitable to either of us. I would serve 
her if I could, for the sake of our old 
friendship ; but the renewal of that friend- 
ship is out of the question. We’ll drop 
the subject now, if you please. If you 
were not such a man of fashion, I’d ask 
you to join me in a run over into Mor- 
mandy next week.” 

“Next week! You are not thinking 
of leaving London before the end of the 
season ? ” 

“What is the season tome? Am I 
an attendant at kettle-drums and dinner- 
parties, and three or four balls a night? 
Don’t talk nonsense, but say whether or 
not you’ll come.” 

“ Quite impossible now, though I may 
join you later, if you are anywhere this 
side of the Baltic. But I must be off ” — 
glancing at his watch. “I have an en- 
gagement to drive with the Pagets down 


to Richmond. Don’t work too hard, 
Dinsmore ; you begin to look a trifie hag- 
gard. I’ll see you again before long. 
Good-day I ” 

After the young fellow left the studio, 
Dinsmore laid down his palette, walked 
the length of the room once or twice, and 
I finally, pausing by an open window, drew 
from his pocket a letter. 

A note, rather ; for the thick cream- 
; tinted sheet, which he slowly opened, 
contained only a few lines written in a 
woman’s fair, flowing hand ; and this was 
what they said : 

'“Mrs. Trafford presents her compli- 
ments to Mr. Dinsmore, and would like 
to become the purchaser of his picture, 
‘ Wild-Flowers,’ if it has not been already 
sold. She will be exceedingly obliged if 
he will call on her at noon to-morrow.” 

This, together with the date and her 
address, was all that the note contained. 
Dinsmore read it over again, as he had read 
it at least a dozen times before, then re- 
turned the sheet to its envelope and the 
envelope to his pocket, preserving the 
while the steady impassiveness of demean- 
or which he would have preserved if 
Reade, or any one else, had been standing 
t>y. 

This composure, however, was only 
outward inwardly his usually well-regu- 
lated thoughts were in a strange tumult. 
He himself was amazed at the disturbing 
power of this influence which had so un- 
expectedly entered his life. 

“ What possible object can she have 
for wishing to see me ” he muttered, 
aloud. “ The picture is a mere excuse ; I 
have not the least doubt of that. Why 
should Mrs. Trafford wish to recall any- 
thing connected with Amy Reynolds? 
Sometimes women of her class have a 
spurious sentimentality about their youth ; 
but I should not fancy this woman likely 
to be subject to it. Worldly to the core, 
she must be by this time hard of heart 
and cynical of mind. Poor xYmy ! ” he 
added, with his voice suddenly softening, 
“ there were possibilities of better things 


THE LUXURY OF REGRET.’ 


155 


in her once — at least I thought so ; but I 
was not very capable of judging then. It 
can’t be that any shreds of that old folly 
are clinging to me still ! ” he added, al- 
most savagely. “ If so, perhaps the best 
thing I can do will be to go and see her ; 
they would not survive one interview, I 
am sure ! But ” — and here he turned and 
began pacing the room again — “is it 
worth while to give myself the useless 
pain of seeing the foolish, tender, way- 
ward girl I used to love transformed into 
a woman of the world, who lives only for 
pleasure and conquest? Surely such a 
ghost would he sadder than any that ever 
stepped out of a churchyard ! Can I bear 
to face the old memories that mmt lurk 
in her eyes and smile, unless those eyes 
and that smile have changed more utterly 
than I can think possible? No ; it is bet- 
ter to stay away. Her world is not my 
world, nor her ways mine ; we have noth- 
ing in common save a past which is dead 
and should be forgotten. I will write 
and tell her that I do not wish to sell the 
picture ; that will end the matter at once 
—and forever.” 

Those who have observed the great 
tendency of human nature to make reso- 
lutions and break them will not be great- 
ly surprised to learn that, in less than 
twenty-four hours, Dinsmore broke the 
one just recorded. 

“ After all, there is no reason why I 
should avoid Mrs. Trafford more than I 
would avoid any other indifferent stran- 
ger,” he thought. “She is nothing to 
me, nor am I more to her than a painter 
who has ventured to take what she very 
likely considers an undue liberty with her 
face. , It will seem churlish not to go and 
at least apologize for that.” 

So, with the intention of apologizing 
for this “ undue liberty,” he found him- 
self, on the day and at the time appointed, 
in Mrs. Trafford’s drawing-room. 

During the few moments in which he 
was left alone he looked around with 
something of the same wonder which 
Marchmont had felt in the apartment — 


with the same sense of the great differ- 
ence between the mistress of all this lux- 
ury and the girl he had once known, the 
musician’s penniless daughter in her pov- 
erty-stricken home. 

“ She has the desire of her heart ! ” he 
thought, as his glance swept over all the 
indications of wealth united to taste. 
“ How she longed for these things ! How 
she hated the narrowness and restraint of 
poverty ! Have they brought her happi- 
ness, I wonder ? It is a very shallow na- 
ture which worldly dissipation can satis- 
fy. When I look at her face, shall I be 
able to tell whether it has satisfied her or 
not?” 

As he walked to a window and looked 
out over the flower-filled balcony to the 
green park that lay beyond in all its sum- 
mer beauty, a door behind him opened, a 
woman’s dress softly rustled across the 
floor, and he turned to meet once more 
his old companion. 


CHAPTER VII. 

“the luxury op regret.” 

With Marchmont, as we are aware, 
Mrs. Trafford’s composure had not failed 
any more than it was likely to fail with 
Danesford, Grantham, or any other of 
her numerous admirers; but a strain of 
altogether different feeling came over her 
when she found herself on the eve of 
meeting Hugh Dinsmore. 

To analyze the different emotions 
which entered into this feeling would be 
impossible, but it may be said that it bore 
as little reference as possible to any ques- 
tion of sentimentalism. To the woman 
of the world — the woman in whose ex- 
perience passions had lived and died like 
mushrooms — the memory of a boy’s fancy 
was hardly more than matter for a smile. 

The thoughts which really moved her 
in meeting Hugh were recollections of 
the early life with which he was associ- 


156 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


ated, and especially of her father and 
Felix. After her note had been sent, she 
was half sorry for having written it. 

“ What a fool I am ! ” she thought, 
“to bring upon myself the pain of re- 
viving those old memories ! ” 

But eyen those old memories passed 
from her mind when she entered the 
room and saw the man who turned to 
meet her — not the familiar friend of her 
youth, but an absolute stranger. 

“ Hugh ? ” she exclaimed, involuntari- 
ly, in a tone between wonder and doubt, 
“/sit Hugh?” 

Dinsmore — who had an advantage 
over her, inasmuch as he had seen her 
before — advanced with a quiet grace, 
which she observed even in her surprise. 

“ It is Hugh, Mrs. Trafford,” he said. ^ 
“ Let me thank you for having given me 
an opportunity to meet you again.” I 

He took her hand as he spoke, smiling 
the while at her expression of astonish- 
ment. 

“ Have I altered beyond recognition ? ” 
he asked. “Do you doubt my identity? 

I can very soon convince you that I am 
the same person you knew of old, if you | 
care to be convinced.” j 

“I now see that you are,” she said, | 
looking into his eyes — the candid, limpid | 
eyes she had once known so well; “but 
you have changed exceedingly ! Not more 
than is natural — not more than I have, | 
probably; but, you see, I was not think- 
ing of you like this. I thought of my 
old friend ; and you are not he.” 

Her voice sank over the last words 
with the softness which her admirers 
knew well — perilous softness it often 
was to those who listened; but Hugh 
Dinsmore ansAvered, with the same self- 
possessed quietness he had already dis- 
played : 

“You are mistaken in that. I am 
your old friend still, Mrs. Trafford, and 
very glad to perceive — very glad to con- 
gratulate you on — your brilliant success 
in life.” 

“Yet you have been in no haste to 


congratulate me,” she said, now herself 
again. 

She sat down as she spoke, and mo- 
tioned him to a chair by her side. The 
first surprise over, it was an absolute re- 
lief to her to perceive how greatly he 
had changed — to find that he hardly re- 
minded her at all of things which she did 
not wish to remember. An epicurean 
once, an epicurean always, Amy shrank 
as much from painful memories and dis- 
agreeable thoughts now as she had shrunk 
in the past from the privations and dis- 
comforts of poverty. 

“ But perhaps you did not know that 
I was in London ? ” she added, as he 
obeyed her gesture, while her sweeping 
glance took in every point of his personal 
appearance, every detail of his manner; 
and she decided, as a woman of her class 
can decide in an instant, that her old 
companion was thoroughly refined, thor- 
oughly a gentleman, thoroughly “ present- 
able.” 

“Yes, I knew that you were in Lon- 
don,” he answered. “ You were pointed 
out to me in the Park, several days ago.” 

“ You knew it ! ” — she gave him the 
full benefit of her beautiful eyes in a gaze . 
of reproach — “ and you waited for me to 
send for you ! That does not speak much 
for the friendship in which you bid me 
believe.” 

“Pardon me,” said Hugh, in his 
straightforward fashion, “but you must 
comprehend why I did not think for a 
moment of advancing any claim to your 
notice on the score of our old acquaint- 
ance. Many things have changed in the 
years since we parted — our respective 
positions most of all.” 

“ You are famous — or, at least, on the 
threshold of becoming famous — I am 
told,” said she, with the graceful tact 
which had rounded many an aAvkward 
conversational point. “I always knew 
that you would be.” 

“I am as little famous as any other 
hard-working painter with a moderately 
good reputation,” said Hugh, uncom- 


THE LUXURY OF REGRET.’ 


157 


promisingly. “ But if I were famous in 
my world, I should still be as far as ever 
from the world you have entered.” 

“ What do you know of the world I 
have entered ? ” she asked. 

“Little or nothing,” he answered — 
“ except that it is the world of fashion, 
which closes its doors on all who are 
workers or Bohemians; and artists are 
strongly suspected of belonging to both 
classes.” 

“ Classes to which I belong by birth, 
you know,” she said. “Hugh, if you 
really have any recollection of our old 
friendship, let us drop this unreal tone, 
and be ourselves. Do you think I have 
forgotten or disowned anything? Do 
you think I fail to remember the old life 
in Edgerton, with papa giving music- 
lessons — we growing up like young 
Arabs — my ambition — our plans for the 
future, when you and Felix and I were 
to be artists together ? If I had forgotten 
any of it, your picture would have brought 
it all back to me. And I thought — Do 
you care to know what I thought when I 
saw that scene, torn out of our old life, 
and placed in such a strange, new set- 
ting? ” 

Despite himself, his interest was 
caught and held by her changing face, 
her vivid eyes, her rich, earnest voice. 
“Yes,” he said; “ you cannot doubt that 
I should like to know what you thought.” 

“ I first thought. How strange life is ! 
— ^how strange that, of we three, you 
alone should have fulfilled your ambition ! 
The grass has been growing for ten years 
over Felix, and I — ” 

“You have no need to regret the loss 
of your career,” said he, looking at her 
with a searching keenness of glance. “It 
is impossible that you can mean to imply 
that you do ? ” 

“I don’t mean to imply it; as you 
say. It would be impossible for me to do 
so. My position in life is all that I can 
ask — is far, far more brilliant than I had 
any right to suppose that it would be. 
But somehow the difference of everything 


from what we hoped and planned struck 
me with a sense of pain when I saw your 
picture.” 

- Hugh bent his head — perhaps to con- 
ceal a slightly satirical smile that curled 
his lip. 

“It is some French writer, I think — 
French writers generally manage to go 
to the core of things — who speaks of the 
luxury of regret, when regret is not too 
poignant. In your position, Mrs. Traf- 
ford, I should say that any regret over 
the ‘ difference of everything from what 
we hoped and planned ’ must be altogeth- 
er a luxury.” 

The color deepened swiftly, almost 
painfully, on her face. It had been many 
a day since such a tone as this— -a tone of 
irony and half-concealed mockery — had 
fallen on her ear, used only to softest 
adulation. She felt like one who is at 
once rebuffed and disconcerted. If she 
had spoken what she thought, she would 
have said, “You are discourteous and 
unkind!” But, instead of that, she an- 
swered after a minute, without the least 
sign of ruffled feeling : 

“I do not think I spoke of regret ; I 
only spoke of memory, and of that pang 
which memory always holds. I am so 
little given to sentiment, I am so little* 
fond of harrowing my emotions, that it 
is very seldom I indulge in what your 
French writer would esteem the luxury 
of recalling the past. But your picture 
made me think of it ; and, since you are 
the only person connected with that life 
whom I could possibly desire to see, I 
venture to hold out my hand to you 
across all the years.” 

A more implacable person than Hugh 
would have been disarmed by the gra- 
ciousness of these words, especially since 
Mrs. Traffbrd could infuse into her least 
utterance a charm which it is impossible 
to define. 

“You are very kind,” he replied, fall- 
ing back on the conventional formulas 
which stand us all in good stead. “I 
must tell you that, apart from the pleas- 


158 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


ure of seeing you once more, I have 
obeyed your summons in order to make 
an explanation with regard to that pict- 
ure. It was altogether owing to an acci- 
dent that I painted it. I can hardly sup- 
pose that you remember one Sunday 
afternoon when we were in that glen to- 
gether, and I made a sketch of you — ” 

She interrupted him quickly. 

“ I remember it perfectly. It was in 
April, and I told you for the first time 
that I meant to be a singer.” 

“Yes, it was that evening” — he did 
not say by what other token she might 
remember it — “ I made a sketch of the 
scene and of yourself, and that sketch I 
found a few months ago in one of my old 
portfolios. It recalled your face to me 
so vividly, that I felt sure I could paint 
it without any other aid to memory; 
and I think I succeeded — moderately, 
at least. I should not, however, have 
placed the picture on exhibition if I had 
dreamed that there was any danger of 
recognition ; and I offer you a sincere 
apology for having done so.” 

“There is surely no need of an apol- 
ogy,” she said. “ The girl whom you 
painted there is dead and gone ; and I, 
who may be esteemed her lawful repre- 
sentative, give you leave to make any use 
you like of your old sketches of her face. 
Poor, pretty, foolish face ! I felt sorry 
to look at it. But you will think that I 
do indulge in the ‘ luxury of regret ’ if I 
am absurd enough to talk like this ! ” she 
broke off, with a laugh. “ May I trouble 
you to ring the Bell? There is another 
old friend of yours whom I should like 
you to see. — Ask Miss Reynolds to come 
here,” she said to the servant who en- 
tered a moment later. 

“ So it is my old friend Mariette, 
whom I remember as insatiable with re- 
gard to stories, and avaricious with regard 
to sugar-plums! ” said Dinsmore. “Life 
is a kaleidoscope of changes, certainly. 
And what has become of Oliver and 
Ernest ? ” 

“They are both in America. You 


know, perhaps, that Mr. Trafford had an 
extensive business connection, and many 
friends. Owing to the influence of these, 
both Oliver and Ernest have obtained ex- 
cellent business positions, and are rising 
in the world.” 

“ Then they are not musicians ? ” 

“No; both are musical, but neither a 
musician. Mariette has a delicious voice 
— not so powerful as mine was, but very 
sweet. You must hear her sing.” 

Just as Dinsmore was about to reply, 
the door opened, and Mariette entered — 
a vision fitted to charm the sight of any 
man who was a painter, in the exquisite 
freshness of her blond loveliness. 

She bowed slightly to the stranger, 
and then addressed her sister : “You sent 
for me, Amy ? ” 

“Yes,” Amy answered; “I sent for 
you to see an old friend. Have you no 
idea who this is? ” 

Mariette turned her blue eyes on the 
person thus presented to her, and, after 
an instant’s puzzled scrutiny, leaped to 
the ‘right conclusion. 

“ It must be Hugh ! ” she said. “We 
have no other old friends in London — 
have we, Amy? I think it must be — ah, 
I know it is Hugh ! ” she cried, holding 
out a tiny, lily-leaf hand, as Dinsmore 
drew near, with a softer light in his eyes 
than had shone there for Mrs. Trafford. 

“ Would you like to hear the story of 
the ‘Ugly Duckling’ again, Mariette?” 
he asked, smiling. “ You will allow me 
to say ‘ Mariette ’ once, for the sake of old ’ 
acquaintance — will you not? My dear 
little playfellow, what a charming woman 
you have become ! I believe I used to 
call you the ‘Fair One with the Golden 
Locks ’ and the title suits you better now 
than ever.” 

“And you — oh, how handsome and 
nice-loohing you have become ! ” cried 
the fair one, with delightful frankness. 
“I am so glad to see you again! — and 
what on earth should you call me but 
‘ Mariette ? ’ I remember the ‘ Ugly 
Duckling ’ ever so well, and I would like 


“THE LUXURY OF REGRET.” 


159 


to hear it again. You were the very best 
story-teller I ever knew, Hugh — may I 
eall you Hugh ? ” 

“ Of course you may ! As you re- 
mark, what else on earth should you call 
me? ” 

“ I feel very much as if I were taking 
a great liberty with a stranger, for there 
is really no sign of Hugh about you — ex- 
cept, perhaps, your eyes. — What do you 
think, Amy ? — should you ever have 
known him ? ” 

“ Hardly, I think,” Amy answered. 
“ But we are apt to forget what a length 
of time ten years is, and what differences 
it makes. No doubt you and I are 
changed as much as Mr. Dinsmore.” 

Mr. Dinsmore I Mariette opened her 
eyes at that name, and would no doubt 
have opened them a little wider if she 
had known that it was the first time her 
sister had uttered it — an utterance due 
to the curious mortification with which 
she noted how much warmer Hugh’s 
greeting was for Mariette than it had 
been for herself. 

“ Of course I have changed immense- 
ly,” said Mariette; “but, although you 
have improved very much, Amy, I do not 
think you have altered beyond recogni- 
tion. There was Mr. Marchmont, for 
instance, who knew you.” 

Involuntarily Dinsmore looked at Mrs. 
Trafford, but, quick as was his glance, it 
failed to detect any sign of discomposure 
on her face, while her manner was coldly 
careless as she answered : 

“ That is not exactly a case in point, 
Mariette. Though Mr. Marchmont had 
heard my name, and had seen me several 
times, he was not sure of my identity un- 
til it was settled by Mr. Dinsm ore’s pict- 
ure.” 

“ When I heard that,” said Hugh, 
bluntly, “I was very sorry for having 
painted the picture, I assure you, Mrs. 
Trafford.” 

She looked at him with a smile. 

“You need not be sorry,” she said, 
“/am not. Good and evil are mixed in 
11 


everything; and the good counterbal- 
ances the evil in this, I think. But who 
told you anything about it ? ” 

“A young fellow named Reade — an 
artist, who was at the Academy that day 
with the party to which Marchmont was 
attached.” 

“ Some people of whom he spoke to 
me, probably. What is their name? ” 

“ Paget is the name Reade mentioned. 
He talked a great deal of a girl to whom 
he has taken a fancy, in whose train 
Marchmont is dangling.” 

“ Indeed ! She must be an heiress.” 

“ So I said at once ; and since then I 
have seen an American who confirms my 
judgment, by telling me that she is a con- 
siderable heiress.” 

“Ah! ” said Mrs. Trafford. She was 
silent for a minute, and her eyes turned 
absently out of the window to the green 
trees in the park, and the smoky-blue sky 
above. “And this Mr. Reade has taken 
j a fancy to the girl, you say ? ” she asked. 

I “What order of person is he? Artists 
I belong to all classes, as we know.” 
j “ Reade belongs to Mayfair more than 
to Bohemia,” Hugh answered. “ He 
comes of good people, has genuine talent, 
but no industry, and just fortune enough 
! to ruin him for all practical purposes.” 

“ Agreeable ? ” 

“ Exceedingly so 1 At this moment I 
can’t think of any one more agreeable.” 

“Then I am going to begin our new 
acquaintance by asking a favor of you. 
Present this very agreeable gentleman to 
me — will you not? ” 

“ I am sure he would be most happy 
to be presented. But— shall I be doing 
him a kindness, Mrs. Trafford?” 

She blushed a little, for she under- 
stood all that the grave tone, the graver 
eyes, implied. 

“ / shall not harm him, if that is what 
you mean,” she answered. “ How have 
you learned to think me so dangerous ? ” 

“ According to the rules of gallantry, 
I believe I should say I have seen you, 
and that is enough ; but as a plain mat- 


160 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


ter of truth, I must add that I have also 
heard of you. Mrs. Trafford’s reputation 
is not confined to one capital of Europe.” 

“ Mrs. Trafford’s old friends — nay, it 
is foolish to speak in the plural, when, to 
be honest, one must he singular — Mrs. 
Trafford’s old friend might suspend judg- 
ment until he learns how far report has 
dealt justly with her.” 

Mrs. Trafford’s old friend looked at 
the beautiful, beguiling face, and felt his 
heart hardening. Like most men of his 
class, he had an ideal of womanhood 
which was as far as possible removed 
from a coquette who lived only to ensnare 
men’s hearts and win their homage. 

“If there had been much room to 
doubt its justice,” he said, constrained to 
honesty, “ I should have been convinced 
by a scene in Richmond Park upon which 
I stumbled a few days ago. My presence 
there was an accident, pure and simple — 
one of those accidents against which no 
foresight could guard ; but you will allow 
me to apologize for it? ” 

“As well as for having painted the 
picture?” she said, smiling a little. 
“What will you apologize for next? So 
it was you in Richmond Park that even- 
ing ! I had an odd instinct of your pres- 
ence, though I did not recognize you. 
The scene upon which you stumbled was 
very harmless, but I suppose I could not 
conv^ince you of that. Pray, do not think 
of going ! ” — as he rose. “ I have planned 
a nice luncheon— you and Mariette and I 
alone. Besides, we have not settled about 
the picture, and I have not asked you a 
syllable about any of the people in Edg- 
erton.” 

“We can settle about the picture in 
half a dozen words,” said he, reluctantly. 

“ But those half-dozen words cannot 
be spoken at present,” said Mariette. 
“Here comes Thompson to announce 
luncheon, and you may consider yourself 
a prisoner, without hope of grace.” 

It was too late for retreat, so Hugh 
made the best of the situation — certainly 
not one of which most men would have 


been inclined to complain. Even he felt 
little inclination to do so, when be found 
himself in the dining-room seated at a 
luncheon-table pretty enough for a pict- 
ure. 

Conversation was less personal and 
more easy here than it had’ been in the 
drawing-room ; it touched lightly on 
many different topics, and Dinsmore soon 
perceived that, if Mrs. Trafford lived 
chiefly for the world of fashion, she had 
at least not failed to enlarge her mind 
and her sympathies by a broader culture 
than is usual with women. 

Mariette was too young for the same 
result to be apparent in her, but she pos- 
sessed a childlike gayety, a daring, yet 
graceful frankness, irresistibly attractive. 

“ I should like to paint you,” Dins- 
more said to her, presently. “ Do you 
not think you could sit to me ? I need 
just such a head as yours for a picture on 
which Tam engaged.” 

“I shall be delighted! ” she respond- 
ed. — “You see my turn has come at last, 
Amy ! — You must understand,” she con- 
tinued, turning to Hugh, “ that the artists 
in Italy all raved over Amy, and would 
have given anything to have obtained a 
sitting from her. But she has never 
even had her portrait painted — which I 
think a shame ! ” 

“Do you remember the old arrange- 
ment between us, that you should paint 
my portrait ? ” Amy asked, looking at 
her guest. 

“ In violet velvet and point-lace — yes, 
I remember,” he answered. “The violet 
velvet and point-lace are fortunately 
quite practicable now : but, unfortunate- 
ly, I am not a portrait-painter, and there- 
fore not qualified to do justice to such a 
subject.” 

“You are satisfied to have done more 
than justice to the same subject at a dif- 
ferent period. A propos^ may I ask if you 
mean to let me become the purchaser of 
‘Wild-Flowers? ’ ” 

“ I did not paint the picture with any 
intention of selling it,” he replied, quietly. 


“OLD SENTIMENT” 


161 


“ I cannot allow you to become its pur- 
chaser, but if you will accept it — ” 

She interrupted him decidedly, almost 
haughtily. 

“That is altogether out of the ques- 
tion! Excuse me for having troubled 
you with regard to the matter, and let 
me congratulate you on your brilliant 
success in the ‘ Wacht am Rhein.’ I am 
told that it is one of the pictures most 
admired in the exhibition this year.” 

“ Well, Amy,” said Mariette, an hour 
later, “ what do you think of Hugh ? ” 

“I think,” answered Mrs. Trafford, 

“ that there is nothing in the world more 
foolish than to renew old associations of | 
any kind. Characters change quite as ' 
much as circumstances; and, after the 
lapse of years, people who were friends 
once are less than strangers. If I had j 
ever doubted that the experiment was a 
rash one, I should be sure of it now.” 

“ Then you do not like Hugh ? Is that 
what you mean? ” ! 

“I did not exactly mean that; but 
there is little sympathy between us ; and, 
in short, one had better be satisfied with 
those who are of one’s own worlds and , 
with whom one has tastes and habits in ; 
common.” j 

“ I thought we found a great many j 
tastes in common with Hugh,” said Mari- | 
ette, sauntering up to a mirror in order j 
to regard the face at which Hugh had i 
gazed so admiringly, “ and I don’t know 
how you feel about it, but I think that 
the visit to his studio, which he asked us 
to make, will be delightful.” 


CHAPTER YIII. 

“old sentiment.” 

“Will I do, Mary? Pray tell me 
quite honestly if you like the effect of 
this dress? ” 

“ What a question, Nelly! ” said Mrs. 


Paget. “As if one could venture not to 
like a dress of Worth’s? It is beautiful 
— ravissant, as the French say — and you 
look better than I ever saw you ! ” 

“One is uncertain about these new 
shades,” said Nelly. “They are very 
trying.” 

“I think them lovely,” said Mrs. 
Paget, who belonged to the order of 
women who think anything lovely that 
is fashionable. “ The effect is simply 
exquisite; you may be sure of that.” 

Pale-pink silk and lilac crape — could 
any one, save Worth, venture upon such 
a combination? Yet, as Mrs. Paget de- 
clared, it was “simply exquisite,” and 
very becoming to Nelly’s blooming com- 
plexion, while her pretty brown hair was 
coifed high, and dressed with a cluster 
of pale-pink roses and a spray of lilac. 

If she wanted a confirmation of her 
sister-in-law’s opinion, Marchmont’s face 
gave it when she entered the drawing- 
room where he and Mr. Paget were wait- 
ing, amusing themselves the while by 
looking at the animated scene which the 
London streets presented at half -past 
seven o’clock on a June evening, when 
all the world seems to be going out for 
purposes of pleasure. The Paget party 
were also going out to dine with Mrs. 
Trafford. Hence Miss Paget’s careful 
toilet and her anxiety concerning it. 

As she entered, Marchmont turned, 
and his quick gaze of admiration brought 
a bright glow to the girl’s cheek. 

“ How charming you look! ” he said, 
advancing toward her. “I thought I 
knew all your capabilities for looking 
well, but I see I was mistaken ; you have 
developed a new one to-night.” 

“I am glad you like my toilet,” said 
she. “ I know that your taste is admi- 
rable, and I trust a great deal to your 
opinion. Of course, with Mrs. Trafford 
and her beautiful sister I shall be totally 
eclipsed ; still, I was anxious to look my 
modest best.” 

“You certainly have succeeded, and 
I do not think you need entertain any 


162 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


fear of an eclipse. Modesty is a good 
thing, no doubt; but sometimes it is a 
misplaced thing — and it is grievously 
misplaced with you, just now. I wish 
you would give me leave to tell you all 
that I think of your appearance — and of 
yourself.” 

His voice sank low, his eyes grew 
eloquently soft, and Nelly’s heart beat 
fast under her pink silk and lilac crape. 

People who profess to analyze emo- 
tions, and who can tell to a nicety exactly 
where fancy ends and love begins, might 
have said that it was only her fancy 
which was enlisted in Marchmont’s favor. 
Yet fancy not only borders so closely on 
love as to be constantly mistaken for it, 
but it often does duty creditably for the 
latter even to the end — that inevitable 
end of disillusionment which awaits all 
spurious sentiments. Whatever was the 
cause, her heart beat fast ; of that there 
can be no doubt. 

Within the last day or two March- 
mont’s devotion had unmistakably ad- 
vanced toward a culmination — for had he 
not tested his old influence with Mrs. 
Trafford and found it lacking? — and does 
any man wise in the wisdom of the world i 
peril a certain and positive good for an 
uncertain and illusory one ? 

After he left the house of the woman 
who had once loved him, and began to 
reckon up the chances of winning that 
love again, not even vanity could blind 
him to the fact that there was an exceed- 
ingly faint possibility of doing so. A 
woman of the world like Mrs. Trafford 
would undoubtedly marry for the things 
of the world. With her face, with her 
cleverness, above all, with her fortune — 
reckoned by those who knew best at a 
hundred thousand pounds — what matri- 
monial height might she not hope to i 
gain? No; the prize was glittering, but 
to try to grasp it was to waste time and 
effort in chasing a will-o’-the-wisp, while 
ready to his hand was Nelly Paget and 
Nelly Paget’s fortune, to tide over the 
financial ruin which threatened him. 


I Certain it was that, with the aid of 
many cigars, Mr. Marchmont weighed 
every pro and con of the question, and 
acted with his usual devotion to his own 
interest in deciding to abandon all hope 
of reviving “old sentiment” with Mrs. 
Trafford. 

“After the life she has led for ten 
years, she will be altogether material in 
her views of things,” he thought. “ She 
will ask, ‘What shall I gain by such a 
step ? ’ and it is very clear that she would 
gain nothing, in comparison with what 
she now possesses. If I could only have 
looked into the future — if I could only 
have imagined that she would marry old 
Trafford — I should not have parted with 
her as I did. I should have kept a hold 
on her which would be useful to me 
now.” 

A vain regret, however, and, being 
vain, one over which Mr. Marchmont did 
not waste reflection. He turned his at- 
tention at once to Nelly Paget, and being 
anxious, for certain private reasons, to 
make things sure, he pressed toward the 
point of a declaration. 

It was a point from which the girl, 

1 with the coquetry of her sex, cleverly 
fenced him off. She liked him, but hers 
was too honest a nature not to distrust 
him also — vaguely but decidedly. He 
was tender, gallant, charming, but in her 
heart she could not feel as if he really 
loved her; and this instinct held her 
back from loving him. 

Yet, as I have said, fancy often does 
duty for love ; so there can be no doubt 
of the flutter of Nelly’s heart — which 
brings us back to the point from which 
we diverged. 

Notwithstanding this flutter, she 
looked up at him with a self-possessed 
smile: 

“ I should be very glad to hear your 
opinion of my appearance and of myself, 
and have no doubt I would derive a great 
deal of useful information from it; but 
the question is. Would it be sincere?” 

“You must understand very little 


OLD SENTIMENT.” 


163 


what you are to me, if yon think it could 
be other than sincere ! ” he answered. 
“ Nelly, you are unkind— nay, more ; you 
are unjust — when you say such things! 
You may not care to accept what I offer 
you, but at least you should believe in it.” 

Nelly’s hand began to tremble so that 
she could scarcely button the glove over 
which her head was bent. This, if March- 
mont had only known it, was his moment 
of opportunity. They were, to all intents 
and purposes, alone, standing together in 
the middle of the room, while Mr. Paget 
remained obligingly at the window and 
gazed out, with the din of cabs and car- 
riages filling his ears. 

“Believe what, monsieur?” the girl 
asked, as lightly as she could, and then 
went on hastily, conscious that she had 
involuntarily asked a very leading ques- 
tion. “ I don’t believe in anything very 
much ; I haven’t faith, I suppose. I have 
even ventured to doubt Worth since I put 
on this dress. But your commendation 
reassures me.” 

“ If you have faith in me that far, 
have faith further,” said he, half jestingly. 

A moment before he had been on the 
verge of a declaration ; but, aware that 
Walter might turn or Mrs. Paget enter 
at any instant, he felt inclined to defer it 
now. 

After all, time and opportunity were 
in his own hand, he thought, as many a 
man had thought before ; forgetting that 
tide in the affairs of men which must be 
taken at the flood to lead on to fortune. 

“1 have perfect faith in your good 
!;aste,” said she, evading the direct issue, 
after a fashion common with women. 
“ If you honestly think me looking well, I 
shall go with a lighter heart to meet the 
wonderful Mrs. Trafford. By-the-by, 
have you ever revived the tender remi- 
niscences of the past with her? Does 
she still remember anything of the old 
romance ? ” 

“ I have seen Mrs. Trafford only once, 
as you are aware, and on that occasion I 
certainly made no effort to revive any 


‘ tender reminiscences.’ In fact, I am by 
no means sure that there are any to be 
revived. As I told you, we had a flirta- 
tion long ago, but it did not occur to 
either of us to attach any importance to 
the affair.” 

“ It is really edifying to hear how 
lightly you speak of such trifles as dead- 
and-gone flirtations! I wonder — Ah, 
Mary, here you are! I was just thinking 
we shall be rather late ! ” 

“ The carriage has been waiting some 
time,” said Mr. Paget, turning round. 
“ If you are ready, my dear, we had bet- 
ter go.” 

Twenty minutes later the party were 
ushered into Mrs. Trafford’s drawing- 
room ; and Mrs. Trafford, rising from a 
chair near one of the open, flower-filled 
windows came forward to receive them. 

Not alone, however, had she been sit- 
ting in the cool, fragrant apartment; a 
masculine figure rose also, and stood in 
the background while she received the 
guests. 

“Charmed to meet you, Mrs. Paget! 
Sorry not to have found you at home the 
other day. — Miss Paget, I am glad to know 
you, and Mr. Paget also. — Ah, Mr. March- 
mont, how do you do ? ” 

This, or something like it, was all that 
she said; but the grace of her manner, 
her voice, her smile, made the common- 
place words a welcome fit for royalty. 
The gentleman in the background was 
presented as Colonel Danesford, and Nel- 
ly immediately indentified him as Mrs. 
Trafford’s principal attendant whenever 
she had seen that lady in public. 

Conversation for a few minutes was 
general, and as brilliant as it usually is on 
such occasions, when matters are further 
enlivened by an utter absence of all sub- 
jects of common interest. Then a door 
at the farther end of the apartment 
opened, and with a soft rustle of silk and 
muslin — azure silk under white muslin 
and lace — Mariette entered. 

Her beauty for a moment fascinated 
all eyes, so fresh and nymph-like was it ; 


164 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


and, while her greetings were being 
made, another guest entered, toward 
whom Mrs. Trafford turned cordially, 
and whom the Pagets recognized, with 
surprise, as their friend Mr. Reade. 

The surprise on Marchmont’s part was 
altogether unmixed with pleasure. Ex- 
actly jealous of this new acquaintance he 
was not ; but he disapproved of him for 
several reasons — among which his atten- 
tions to Nelly Paget and his friendship 
with Hugh Dinsmore stood chief. To 
meet him here was something which he 
certainly had not reckoned upon. 

Dinner was announced almost imme- 
diately, and Mrs. Trafford laid her hand 
on Mr. Paget’s arm. Colonel Danesford 
offered his to Mrs. Paget, Marchmont took 
Mariette, and, as a consequence of these 
combinations, Reade and Nelly found 
themselves together. 

“Why did you never tell me that you 
knew Mrs. Trafford?” she whispered, 
on their way to the dining-room. 

“ For the very good reason that I have 
not seen you since I knew her,” he an- i 
swered. “I called yesterday, but you 
were out.” 

“Yes; we were sorry to have missed 
you. I think life is made up of missing 
people that one likes to see, and meet- 
ing those for whom one does not 
care.” 

“It is too often the case; but some- 
times Fate makes amends by allowing one 
to meet the person that one wishes most 
to see — of which happy chance I am an ex- 
ample at the present moment.” 

The color deepened a little on Nelly’s 
pretty face, but she laughed lightly. 

“ Does that mean Mrs. Trafford? ” she 
asked. 

“I am sure that you must know very 
well whom it means,” he answered ; and if | 
we stretch a point, and suppose that she 
had not known, his voice would have told 
her. 

The dinner was perfect, and passed 
off admirably; for Mrs. Trafford was a 
thorough mistress of social art, and could 


have made harmonious any elements more 
jarring than those there assembled. 

As the party was small, the conversa- 
tion was in a great measure general, but 
there were some side-interviews carried 
on — notably one between Marchmont and 
Mariette. 

“ Of course I remember you ! ” the 
latter said. “ How could you think 1 
would not ? I was just at the age when 
sugar-plums sink deepest into the heart — 
and you were very lavish with them! 
Do you chance to recollect an old apple- 
tree in our garden? I can fancy myself 
seated there this moment, with a paper of 
sweets ! ” 

An old apple-tree! Did Marchmont 
not remember it ? Yet he almost felt like 
a man in a dream, as he looked across the 
table at Mrs. Trafford’s beautiful face, 
and thought of the girl he had seen 
perched among its gnarled boughs. 

“ You were so young,” he said, “ and 
your life has been so different since that 
time, that I am a little surprised you 
I should remember anything connected with 
that old existence ! ” 

“ I believe people say there are such 
things as dormant memories,” she replied. 
“ My memories were rather dormant, un- 
til I met one of our oldest friends the 
other day. Do you remember Hugh 
Dinsmore, Mr. Marchmont ? ” 

The blue eyes looked at him with 
childlike innocence — it may be added, 
more feigned than real. As a matter of 
fact, Mariette remembered very well how 
matters stood between those two unequal 
rivals in the past, and shrewdly suspected 
how much love they bore each other in 
the present. 

“ I remember a boy of that name who 
used to be seen occasionally in your fa- 
I ther’s house,” he answered. “He has 
since become a painter, I believe.” 

“He painted ‘Wild-Flowers’ — the 
picture in front of which I saw you at 
the Academy. You were struck like my- 
self — were you not? — with the portrait 
of Amy ? ” 


“OLD SENTIMENT.” 


165 


“So much struck that I recognized 
the face at once, and it enabled me to 
identify Mrs. Trafford as the charming 
girl 1 knew long ago. 1 owe Mr. Dins- 
more thanks for having painted the pict- 
ure, therefore — ” 

“ Mr. Dinsmore would be gratified to 
receive them, I am sure,” said Mariette, 
with a gleam of mischief under her 
sweeping lashes. “He has an excellent 
memory for everything connected with 
our old life, and would remember you, 
I have no doubt.” 

“Very likely,” said Marchmont, with 
a careless air which did credit to his self- 
command, since at that moment he rec- 
ollected only too well what good cause 
Hugh Dinsmore had to remember him. 
With the vividness of a picture there rose 
before him the aspect of a country-road, 
a sunset sky, and a shabby boy who stood 
before him and demanded to be heard in 
behalf of Amy Reynolds ; how contempt- 
uously he had thrust him out of his path 
then, and now — Well, well, such mem- 
ories were intrusive, and by no means 
agreeable with ^oodi plats and good wines 
before one, and a lovely girl at one’s side ! 

After dinner, when the ladies were 
alone in the drawing-room, Mrs. Trafford 
sat down beside Miss Paget, and asked 
that young lady if she entertained any 
predilection for artists. 

“Not for any artist in particular,” she 
said, with a soft laugh — “ only for artists 
in general. Would you like to pay a 
visit to a studio? Mr. Dinsmore has 
kindly invited my sister and myself to go 
to see his paintings, and if it would en- 
tertain you to accompany us, I am sure 
he would be glad to see you.” 

“ It would entertain me very much ! ” 
said Nelly. “I should like it of all 
things, if you think Mr. Dinsmore would 
not object — ” 

“ I will answer for that. Under any 
circumstances, Mr. Dinsmore could only 
be charmed to receive you ; but he feels 
a very special interest in you — shall I tell 
you why ? ” 


“Yes, pray tell me!” — and Nelly 
opened her brown eyes. “ I should not 
have fancied that he had ever heard my 
name.” 

“Not even from Mr. Reade? Then 
you have very little idea of the serious 
impression you have made upon that gen- 
tleman. Apropos^ Mr. Dinsmore tells me 
that he belongs to good people, and is not 
at all dependent upon his pictures for 
bread ; in consequence of which, indeed, 
he paints very few.” 

“ That is a pity, if he has genius ! ” 

“Not genius, perhaps, but a great 
deal of talent, no doubt. Let us hope 
that his wife — when he gets one — will 
make him do better. If she has any 
love of art, any pride in his success, she 
will!” 

“Those are large ^«,” said Nelly, 
smiling, yet blushing, she hardly knew 
why. 

“ I don’t think so,” said Mrs. Trafford. 
“Such women are readily found, and I 
cannot imagine anything pleasanter than 
to be able to exert an influence of the 
kind. If I were not altogether past the 
age of sentiment, I should be tempted to 
make him fall in love with me for the 
sake of exerting it,” she added, with an- 
other soft laugh. 

“ You past the age of sentiment ! ” 
said Nelly, looking at the beautiful, youth- 
ful face. “ Pardon me, Mrs. Trafford, but 
I cannot believe that.” 

“It is true, nevertheless,” said Mrs. 
Trafford, with an unruflfled serenity. 

At this point the gentlemen entered, 
and the fair hostess moved away, leaving 
a vacant seat on the sofa by Nelly, which 
Reade at once perceived, and toward 
which he quickly made his way. 

Marchmont, who began to entertain 
an uneasy sense of possible danger in that 
direction, was about to follow and at 
least prevent a tete-d-tete^ when Mrs. 
Trafford interposed, and nipped his inten- 
tion in the bud. 

“ I have scarcely exchanged a word 
with you, Mr. Marchmont ! ” — how be- 


166 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


guiling the sweet voice was! “Will you I 
not take this chair, and let us recall some 
of our old associations? ” 

The chair which her hand indicated 
was immediately beside the one into 
which she gracefully sank — in her silken 
draperies, her soft laces, her shining jew- 
els, a picture to fascinate any man’s eye, 
to chain any man’s attentiou I 

It is quite unnecessary to say that 
her words had the intended effect upon 
Marchmont, and he yielded without an 
instant’s demur to the invitation so gra- 
ciously extended. 

“I am only too happy to have an op- 
portunity of recalling those old associa- { 
tions with you 1 ” he said, taking the 
chair. “ If I ever shrank from them, it 
was only because I did not know whether 
I should ever see you again, or how much 
I might find you changed.” 

“Outwardly, years change us a great 
deal,” said she, indolently waving a fan 
to and fro, and sinking her voice; “but 
the inward change is not always in the 
same ratio. Despite one’s self, one re- 
members — ah! one often remembers a ' 
great deal that one would like to for- 
get ! ” 

Her eyes drooped, her breast heaved 
in a sigh, and Marchmont — Marchmont, 
who had often boasted that the woman 
was never born who could befool him — 
felt himself quiver in every fibre. 

How if, after all, the prize should be 
within his grasp ! How if, after all, old 
sentiment still had power to sway this 
woman as it had, to his knowledge, swayed 
others of her sex ! 

If he had been wise, he would have 
recollected that she, who had once been a 
simple village-girl, was now one of the 
most consummate coquettes in Europe. 
But what is there that can befool a man 
like his own vanity? Deep-rooted in his 
consciousness was the belief, “ She can- I 
not have forgotten And on this 

basis Mrs. Trafford, with a profound 
knowledge of masculine nature, proceeded 
to act. 


“I, too, have often wished that I 
could forget — many things,” said he, sink- 
ing his voice to its most effective key. 
“But w^ho can read the future? Who 
knows what recompenses for the past it 
may hold ? Even to sit here by you, is 
more than for many years I have dared to 
hope for, knowing how you might regard 
me — ” 

“Nay,” said she, with her sweetest 
smile, “ when we spoke of the past, I did 
not mean to revive any disagreeable mem- 
ories. Did I not tell you, the other day, 
that I am able now to comprehend all 
that I may have misunderstood — shall I 
say — then? The world hardens one, 
perhaps, but it also teaches one wisdom. 
"We can smile together over the absurdi- 
ties of our youth, and be very good friends 
— can we not? ” 

Lustrous, beguiling eyes, and a half- 
mocking yet wholly charming smile — few 
men could have resisted these things com- 
bined with a half-million in the back- 
ground ; and Marchmont was not one of 
the few. 

He began to feel that intoxication of 
the senses which leads, by no long path, 
to absolute enthrallment. 

“Do not ask me to perjure myself,’^ 
he murmured, in reply. “ What you call 
‘ the absurdities of our youth ’ are the 
memories most dear to me, of all that 
I possess — memories that have been — ” 

She interrupted him. 

“That will not do,” she said. “One 
thing which all my friends have to under- 
stand is, that I am no sentimentalist ; and 
when people become sentimental, I am 
sometimes rude enough to laugh. It is 
better to laugh than to sigh, you know ; 
and, perhaps, if one did not laugh, one 
might be tempted into sighing.” 

It is not worth while to record the 
conversation that followed. An adept in 
the art of ensnaring — of implying rather 
than saying things agreeable to the vanity 
of her listener — was Mrs. Trafford, and a 
wiser man than Marchmont might have 
yielded to her spell. 


FOR THE SAKE OF THE PAST.’ 


167 


He grounded arms at once. Nor need 
it be supposed that his only motive for 
doing so was self-interest. There could 
be no doubt that this was his original and 
strongest motive; but the woman who 
looked at him with her brilliant eyes, and 
talked to him with her low voice, was a 
mistress of fascination, and before he left 
her side he was more in love with her 
than he had ever been with pretty Amy 
Reynolds — or, for the matter of that, 
with any one else. She was eminently 
fitted to inspire an absorbing passion, and 
it must be recorded of her that she delib- 
erately set herself to inspire it here. 

With long practice and surpassing at- 
tractions, she was not likely now to fail. 
Indeed, she succeeded to such good pur- 
pose, that the thought of Nelly Paget 
soon vanished from Marchmont’s mind 
as completely as if it had never existed 
there. 

Danesford, meanwhile, saw this oft- 
repeated game with a sore, sick heart. 

“ What can you hope from such a co- 
quette?” he often asked himself, but the 
answer of wisdom was given unheeded. 
Let her do what she would, he was her 
thrall until she bade him go ; nevertheless, 
it was with a sense of bitter pain that he 
watched such a scene as this. 

Her quick eye no doubt read the ex- 
pression on his face ; for presently, when 
she had accomplished all that she desired, 
she dismissed Marchmont in the manner 
which women of her class possess to per- 
fection. 

“ Go and take Mariette to the piano,” 
she said. “ I want you to hear her sing ; I 
want to know if you think her voice as 
fine as mine was.” 

Then she crossed over to Mrs. Paget, 
whom Danesford was doing his best to 
entertain, thanked him by a glance, and 
in five minutes, without seeming directly 
to address her attention to him, had 
soothed and charmed him. Presently, 
under cover of the music, she managed to | 
say: “Beware of rash judgment, mon I 
ami. Nay, don’t disclaim! I saw that ! 


you were judging me a little while ago. 
I had a reason — I think a good one — for 
my conduct; and some day, perhaps, I 
may tell you what it is. Meanwhile, re- 
member that, if women are enigmas, at 
the best of times, they are doubly so when 
you do not know their motives.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

“foe the sake of the past.” 

Befoee Mrs. Trafford parted with 
Miss Paget on the evening of the dinner- 
party, it was settled that the latter should 
accompany her to Hugh Dinsmore’s studio 
on the next day. 

“ I do not feel at liberty to ask the 
rest of your party,” Mrs. Trafford said. 
“I think we should scarcely find Mr. 
Dinsmore prepared for so large a com- 
pany. At another time I have no doubt 
he would be glad to see Mr. and Mrs. 
Paget if they care for pictures.” 

“Honestly, I don’t think they care 
very much,” Nelly answered with a 
laugh. “ Walter has more than once 
said that they bore him, and Mary has 
been almost as frank. Don’t trouble 
about them, Mrs. Trafford. Considering 
the nature of the entertainment, they 
will be more than willing for me to go 
alone.” 

“ I will call for you at five o’clock to- 
morrow, then, if you have no other en- 
gagement.” 

“ No other at all.” 

At five o’clock the next afternoon, 
therefore, Mrs. Trafford’s carriage drew 
up at the Langham Hotel, and, after a 
few minutes’ delay, Nelly came down, 
attended by Marchmont. 

“I must tell you, Mrs. Trafford,” she 
cried, gayly, “ that Mr. Marchmont is de- 
voured by curiosity to know where we 
1 are going; and I think he would like 
I exceedingly to be invited to accompany 

I us.” 


168 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“ I am sorry that it is quite out of the 
question to invite him,” said Mrs. Traf- 
ford, extending a delicate pearl-gloved 
hand to Marchmont. “Our destination 
is for the present a mystery ; and when 
it ceases to be a mystery — when you re- 
turn, and tell him where you have been 
— I do not think he will regret having 
been excluded from the expedition.” 

“ Allow me to say that you are mis- 
taken,” replied Marchmont. “Compan- 
ionship alone makes happiness ; and with 
such companionship as the present, what 
place could fail to be delightful ? I should 
enjoy — I speak advisedly — I should en- 
joy even a milliner’s shop.” 

“We will not put your gallantry to 
such a crucial test! ” said Mrs. Trafford, 
and her laughing manner did not alto- 
gether veil the decision of her tone. “We 
shall see you at the opera to-night, I sup- 
pose ? Patti sings in the ‘ Barbiere.’ ” 

She bowed smilingly, and the carriage 
drove off, leaving him standing on the 
pavement looking after it — an expression 
of doubt and irresolution on his face. 

“ If I could trust her ! ” he muttered, 
under his breath. “But one must run 
some risk in all ventures, and this— is 
worth a risk.” 

Meanwhile, Nelly turned to Mrs. 
Trafford, and, in her impulsive fashion, 
said : 

“lam glad you did not ask him to go 
with us. I think he knew Mr. Dinsmore 
once, and — and I have heard him speak 
of him — Mr. Dinsmore, I mean — in a 
manner that would not make it pleasant 
for them to meet — at least, not in this 
way.” ■ 

“ I had no intention whatever of ask- 
ing him,” answered Mrs. Trafford. “ I 
have too much regard for Mr. Dinsmore 
to do so ; but as far as Mr. Marchmont 
himself is concerned,” she added, with a 
sudden glow in her eyes, “ it would be 
wise for him to let Hugh Dinsmore’s 
name rest in silence. The .only reason I 
can imagine for his failing to do so is, 
that we are never so implacable toward 


' any person as toward one whom we have 
injured — or attempted to injure.” 

She spoke with emphasis, and her 
words let in a flood of light on Nelly’s 
intelligence. The latter remembered all 
that Marchmont had said of the boy who 
had once been in love with Mrs. Trafford, 
and she saw — or fancied she saw — proof 
j of the truth of this in Mrs. Trafford’s 
! manner. The fragmentary knowledge of 
that lady’s past life, which had been re- 
vealed to her, inflamed her curiosity to 
learn more. 

“I should like to know exactly all 
that happened between these three people 
when they knew each other before,” she 
thought. “There were romantic — per- 
haps dramatic — chapters in the story, I 
am sure.” 

When you see Hugh Dinsmore, you 
will feel that nothing to his discredit could 
be true,” said Mariette, quickly. And as 
Nelly noted the color deepen on her rose- 
leaf cheek, she began to think that here 
might be a new heroine for a new version 
of the old romance. 

They w^ere not long in reaching Dins- 
more’s studio, which, since he had been 
able to please himself in the matter of 
locality, was in a house on a terrace over- 
j looking the Thames. From his windows 
j he could see the river as it flowed by, 
j laden with steamers, boats, and historic 
memories ; and this fact made amends to 
him for any disadvantage in the situation, 
i Viewed outwardly, however, there 
was none, as the ladies agreed ^vhen the 
[ carriage drew up before the door. 

I “It reminds me of Florence, Amy, 

! and our rooms overlooking the Arno 1 ” 
cried Mariette. “ I think Hugh ought to 
be glad to live in such a pleasant place ! 
— And here he is ! ” 

Yes, Hugh was ready to meet them — 
Hugh, and some one else, whom Nelly 
brightened and blushed to see. 

“ Ah, Mr. Reade — well met 1 ” said 
Mrs. Trafford. “ I see you could not suf- 
fer your friend to face such a feminine 
invasion alone. — Hugh, I Ijiave taken the 


“FOR THE SAKE OF THE PAST.” 


169 


liberty of bringing a young lady with me, 
who is anxious to see your paintings. 
Allow me to present you to Miss Pa- 
get.” 

“I am happy to make Miss Paget’s 
acquaintance,” said Hugli ; and as Nelly 
glanced at his frank, genial face, she felt 
that Mariette was right — that no one 
could look at him and believe that any- 
thing to his discredit was true. 

The studio into which the two young 
men ushered them was a very pleasant 
apartment, with great, wide windows, 
and heavy curtains to alter the light. It 
had none of those wonderful attempts at 
decoration which writers are more given 
to describing than artists are, as a general 
rule, to employing; yet it was a very 
pleasant and altogether habitable place. 
The windows were set wide open; there 
were some flowers on the balcony, half 
a dozen delightfully easy chairs in the 
room, and a broad chintz couch with 
cushions of the same. Besides these, 
there was, of course, the artist’s “ prop- 
erties ” — easels, canvases, brushes, paints, 
lay-figures, and a few odd bits of hric-d- 
hrac here and there. 

Mrs. Trafibrd took in every detail of 
the scene without saying a word, while 
Nelly and Mariette were chattering gayly 
and exclaiming over it. Around her 
were all the means and appliances of 
labor; and if there was also comfort, it 
was the comfort which this labor had 
purchased. Involuntarily she compared 
it with the luxury which surrounded her- 
self, and which had come to her as a free 
gift, unwon by any exertion of her own. 

“ This is best — I am sure this is best ! ” 
she thought; and then she looked at 
Hugh, who was speaking to Mariette 
with liis peculiarly winning smile. 

Was it the charm of thoroughness, she 
wondered, that made him so attractive? 
Was it because he had never for an hour 
mingled in the artificial world in which 
her life had for years been passed, that his 
mere presence seemed to bring a sense 
of refreshment over her spirit ? — a spirit 


more jaded and weary than she realized 
in the whirl and tumult of her life. Why 
else was she dimly conscious of feeling 
as one might who, from a rose-lined 
boudoir and atmosphere redolent of mille- 
fleurs, should step into fresh green fields 
and catch a breath of wild, sweet forest 
odors ? 

Life had taught this woman a great 
deal, and after many days she was to do 
justice to the nature and the heart she 
had once so lightly esteemed, so igno- 
rantly cast away. 

Hugh, who had as little idea as pos- 
sible of what was passing in her mind, 
presently left Reade to act as cicerone to 
the two girls, and came up to her. 

“I have a picture of Felix, Mrs. Traf- 
ford, which I should like you to look at,” 
he said, “ and if you think it a good like- 
ness, I hope you will allow me to copy it 
for you — although you will not accept 
‘ Wild-Flowers.’ ” 

She looked up at him with something 
almost pathetic in her eyes — an expres- 
sion altogether new to them, yet which, 
he had no doubt, was one of many arti- 
fices. 

“You know why I will not accept 
‘ Wild-Flowers,’ ” she said. “ I am so 
well — so very well — able to buy it, and 
you—” 

“ I am quite able to give it away,” he 
interposed, smiling ; “ otherwise I should 
not have been so extravagant as to offer 
it. I am happily past the period of strug- 
gle, Mrs. Trafford ; and I am glad to say 
that I have a sufiicient balance at my 
banker’s to make me a respectable mem- 
ber of society.” 

“No one in the world could rejoice 
more over your success than I do, Hugh,” 
she said, in a low voice. “ But, for the 
sake of the past, you might allow me to 
contribute my insignificant quota to it.” 

“For the sake of the past, that is ex- 
actly what I cannot do ! ” he answered, 
with a sudden hardening sternness in his 
voice — a sternness so unexpected, that 
she absolutely shrank ; “ and we will not 


170 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


talk of it, if you please. May I show you 
the portrait now ? ” 

It was hanging at one end of the 
room, and, having led her there, he drew 
back a curtain, and threw a broad flood 
of light over it. 

As he did so, she started with an ex- 
clamation, for it was Felix himself who 
looked at her from the canvas — Felix, 
with delicate, shadowy face, and large, 
luminous eyes, sitting in his old, well- 
remembered attitude at the piano, with 
flexile, slender hands resting on the ivory 
keyboard. 

“Oh, this is wonderful — wonderful! ” 
she cried, with a choking in her voice 
suggestive of tears. “How could you 
reproduce his face so exactly, when even 
I had almost forgotten it? How it brings 
back everything, more — a hundred ’times 
more — than ‘ Wild-Flowers ’ did! I can 
see him so plainly — my poor boy! — and, 
if I needed anything to harden me in the 
task which lies before me, it would be 
this.” 

She was not aware that she had ut- 
tered the last words aloud, until she 
caught the expression of Hugh’s face — an 
expression half interrogative, half keen, 
wholly surprise. She started then, and 
colored, but did not lose her self-posses- 
sion in the least. 

“ I see you wonder what I meant by 
that,” she said. “ Shall I tell you ? No, 
I do not think you are sufficiently inter- 
ested in me, or in anything that concerns 
me, to care to hear.” 

“You are mistaken,” he replied, read- 
ing accurately, as he thought, the strain 
of feeling in her tone. “I shall always 
be interested in you, Mrs. Trafford, if 
only on account of the old days that are 
dead.” 

“How strange it seems to remember 
them ! ” she said, shading her eyes with 
her face as she gazed at the picture. 
“ How strange that you and I, so differ- 
ently placed from what we were then, 
should meet once more — like this! ” 

“I have become inured to strange 


things,” said he, rather dryly. “Life is 
very full of them. Do you think Mari- 
ette will recognize this face? I will 
bring her to see it.” 

As he moved to where Mariette was 
standing, Mrs. Trafford looked after him 
with a strangely varying expression in 
her eyes. Never before in her career of 
conquest had she, with all her fascinations, 
been so deliberately set at naught as by 
this man. How coolly he put aside the 
reminiscences which, with any one else, 
would have proved irresistible! Nothing 
seemed to touch him. With the instinct 
of subjecting all who approached her to 
her influence — an instinct stronger than 
any other with women of her kind — she 
had tried the most effective weapons of 
her armory upon him, and the result was 
absolute failure. For the first time she 
found a man strong enough to withstand 
her fascination, strong enough to look at 
her with calm eyes, strong enough, she 
felt sure, to despise all the objects of her 
life. 

This novelty was in itself sufficient to 
make her think more of Hugh Dinsmore 
than she thought of the many men whose 
homage was so easily secured, whose de- 
votion was so easily won. 

“ I am glad that he has forgotten his 
old fancy for me,” she thought — for we 
deceive ourselves quite as often as we de- 
ceive others — “ but he might forgive the 
pain I caused him long ago ! It is unkind 
of him to remember it yet ; for I should 
like to feel that I had one honest, genuine 
friend in the world; and such a friend 
he could be.” 

When Mariette was brought to the 
picture, she recognized it at once, and, 
like her sister, wondered at the faithful- 
ness of Hugh’s memory. 

“My recollection of Felix had grown 
so dim,” she said, “ and this makes it 
vivid again. O Hugh, will you not give 
it to us — to Amy and me ? ” 

“I have already told Mrs. Trafford 
that, with her permission, I will make a 
copy for her,” he said. “ Now come and 


“FOR THE SAKE OF THE PAST. 


171 


see the picture in which I want to put 
you^ 

He went up to an easel and drew 
aside a cloth which covered the canvas 
resting thereon. A large and elaborate 
painting was revealed — a painting which, 
from its subject as well as from the mas- 
terly manner in which the subject was 
treated, struck the attention and held it 
fascinated. 

Surely a strange subject viewed with- 
out a clew to its meaning. The high 
battlement of a tower, on the verge of 
which was a plunging, terror-stricken 
horse, rearing back from the frightful 
depth below ; a mail-clad rider, with his 
visor raised, showing a face death-pale ; 
a half-kneeling woman clinging to him in 
an agony of entreaty; and in the back- 
ground a group of awe-stricken retainers. 
The picture was entirely finished save the 
woman’s face ; this had been painted out, 
but there was not a line of the figure 
which did not express passionate, despair- 
ing entreaty, as she clung to his feet. 

The gazers were silent for fully a 
minute. Then it was Mariette who said : 

“I have never seen anything more 
marvelous ! one almost holds one’s breath 
while looking on it! But what does it 
mean, Hugh ? ” 

Dinsmore glanced at Mrs. Traffbrd, 
who smiled slightly, as she said : 

“ I think I know what it means. It 
is a scene from the ‘ Rhyme of the Duch- 
ess May ’ — is it not ? Unless my memory 
fails, I can give you the very lines you 
have chosen to make your text — ” And 
before he could speak, she repeated, in 
her sweet, magnetic voice: 

“ Thrice he wrung her hands in twain. 

But they closed and clung again ; 

Wild she clung, as one withstood 

Clasps a Christ upon the rood 
In a spasm of deathly pain. 

“ She clung wild, and she clung mute, 

With her shuddering lips half-shut ; 

Her head had fallen, as half in swound ; 

Hair and knee swept on the ground, 

She clung wild to stirrup and feet. 


“ Back he reined his steed — back-thrown 

On the slippery coping stone ; 

Back the iron hoofs did grind 

On the battlement behind. 

Whence a hundred feet went down. 

“ And his heel did press and goad 

On the quivering flank bestrode. 

‘ Friends and brothers, save my wife ! 

Pardon, sweet, in change for life. 

But I ride alone to God.’ ” 

“Ah! yes,” said Mariette, “I see it 
all now. I am one of the class of people 
who always see things — when they are 
pointed out to them. But, O Hugh, you 
cannot mean that you want to paint me 
as the Duchess May? ” 

“Why not?” asked Hugh. “I think 
you would make a very lovely duchess.” 

“ I think so myself ” (with a laughing 
glance at a mirror), “ to ride, as she said, 
‘through a castle-gate,’ but not to ‘ride 
• on castle- wall.’ I should certainly have 
let Sir Guy — wasn’t his name Sir Guy ? — 
ride alone there?'' 

“If you found Sir Guy, you might 
feel differently,” said he, looking with 
kindly admiration at the fair, winsome 
face. 

j* But Mariette shook her liead. “ No, 

I no,” she said; “I have no such heroic 
I capabilities. But here is Amy; Amy 
] could do such a thing as that, and never 
i fiinch. Paint for your Duchess May.” 

I There was an instant’s pause; then 
j Mrs. Trafford said, quietly : 

I “Before you propose a substitute, 
Mariette, you should be sure that the ex- 
change would be agreeable on all sides. — 
Don’t be afraid to say that I am not your 
ideal of the Duchess May, Mr. Dinsmore.” 
She looked at him with steady eyes. 
“You think that I would have been 
incapable of giving life for love, and 
probably you are right. Such a sacrifice 
certainly is out of my line. — Ah, Miss Pa- 
get” (as Nelly and Reade approached), 
“ you are just in time to admire this beau- 
tiful picture which Mr. Dinsmore is show- 
ing us.” 

The picture was admired for some 


172 


AFTER MANY DAVS. 


time longer, then other pictures were ex- 
hibited, and finally tea was taken, Eng- 
lish fashion, at a table drawn up before 
one of the windows commanding a view 
of the river and of the green bank oppo- 
site. 

There was no lack of merriment at 
this pleasant feast — merriment in which 
Mrs. Trafford bore her part as thorough- 
ly, if not quite as gayly, as the two girls. 
Hugh played the part of host to perfec- 
tion, and Reade was charmingly agree- 
able. Altogether time passed so swiftly, 
that when Mrs. Trafford presently glanced 
at her watch, she exclaimed : 

“Why, it is nearly seven o’clock! 
And I have to drive’home, make a toilet, 
and dine, then go to the opera and two 
balls afterward. Hugh, your hospitality j 
has been delightful ! And now you must 
say when you will allow me to return it 
— in other words, when can you dine 
with me ? ” 

“When we meet in some Arcadian 
spot where dress-coats are unknown ! ” 
answered Hugh, smiling. “You are very 
kind, Mrs. Trafford, but I never dine 
out.” 

“ Then it is time for you to begin to 
do so,” said Mariette, with her pretty air 
of authority, “Not dine out! I never 
heard of anything so absurd ! I am afraid 
you are eccentric, Mr. Dinsmore.” 

“ I am afraid I am, Miss Reynolds.” 

“ But your eccentricity does not reach 
the point of refusing to do your oldest 
friends a favor ? ” 

“ That depends entirely upon what the 
favor is.” 

“ Bah ! ” she interrupted, gayly. “You 
are going to quibble — and I hate quib- 
bling. In plain words, do you refuse to 
dine with Mrs. Trafford, and meet the 
present agreeable company — with ah ad- 
dition or two, perhaps — eh, Amy? ” 

Hugh’s face changed, for he thought 
at once of Marchmont — Marchmont, who 
had dined with Mrs. Trafford only the 
evening before. 

“It is impossible!” he said. “In 


anything else you might command me, 
but I regret to say that I cannot accept 
Mrs. Trafford’s invitation.” 

Mrs. Trafford had been adjusting her 
veil, and she now turned with heightened 
color. 

“Don’t waste your persuasive elo- 
quence, my dear,” she said. “ Mr. Dins- 
more, I suppose, thinks that dinner is too 
conventional a ceremony for such an un- 
conventional person as himself. We will 
hope to see him at some other time. And 
now I really must hurry Miss Paget and 
yourself away.” 

“Remember that I think it 'ceri/ un- 
kind of you to act so ! ” said Mariette, 
holding out her hand to Dinsmore. “ But 
you will come to see us soon — will you 
I not? We have had a charming visit, and 
you are welcome to use my face for the 
Duchess May, if you like ; but, honestly, I 
don’t think it would suit the character. 
Amy, now — What is it, Amy? Yes, I 
am ready this instant.” 

“We certainly shall be very late!” 
said Mrs. Trafford. Then she shook 
hands with Hugh, last words were ut- 
tered, the last compliments paid, and 
they descended to the waiting carriage 
and were driven away. 


CHAPTER X. 

AFTEE ALL, OLD THINGS ARE BEST. 

Whatever pang of wounded feeling 
Mrs. Trafford felt at the obstinate cold- 
ness of her old companion, no trace of it 
was left on her face, or in her manner, 
when she made her appearance, rather 
late, at the opera that night. 

Marchmont, from his seat in the stalls 
where he had been watching anxiously 
for her, thought that her beauty paled the 
beauty of all other women as she entered 
her box, magnificently dressed, and spar- 
kling with diamonds. 

At sight of her his heart rose with a 


AFTER ALL, OLD THINGS ARE BEST. 


173 


bound. If be had ever doubted that the 
prize was worth all risks, all efforts to 
gain it, he now doubted no longer. 

Sometimes we are prophets without 
being aware of the fact; and such a 
prophet he had been when, on the first 
night that he saw her, he said to him- 
self: 

“ She is mistress of a fascination which 
would soon make a man forget everything 
but herself. I should like to come in con- 
tact with such a woman. I have never 
yet met one capable of inspiring that spe- 
cies of worship which borders on infatu- 
ation, and it would be something to feel, 
if only for the sake of a new sensation.” 

Well, the new sensation had come. 
For the first time in his life he felt that 
for the woman herself, apart from her 
great advantages, he could do and dare 
all things. One syllable of love from 
those lips, one look of tenderness from 
those eyes — these were the rewards which 
already began to take the chief place in 
his imagination. 

He was the first person to enter her 
box ; and, when Mr. Grantham appeared 
there, he found the American stranger al- 
ready installed in the place of honor. 

Mrs. Trafford’s manner was thorough- 
ly courteous ; nevertheless, the secretary 
of legation soon felt that his day of favor 
was over. No woman could make this 
more unmistakably evident; no wom- 
an could with more subtile grace turn 
her shoulder — figuratively — upon a cap- 
tive of whom she had wearied. Impet- 
uous men like Colonel Danesford — men 
who had really lost their hearts to the 
fair enchantress — rushed upon their fate 
despite the warning; but Mr. Grantham 
did not belong to this class. He saw, rec- 
ognized, bowed to the inevitable at once, 
and had no idea of incurring the mor- 
tification of a definite and decided re- 
jection. 

Nevertheless, his vanity was sufii- 
ciently wounded for him to feel inclined 
to bestow a thrust or two upon the ca- 
pricious beauty who had ventured to trifle 


even with Tiis exalted homage ; and 
chance put it in his power to do this bet- 
ter than he knew. 

Mrs. Trafford, after carelessly exam- 
ining for a minute, through her glass, a 
new arrival in the box opposite, said: “Is 
not that the pretty, fair-haired girl who 
was so much admired at Nice last win- 
ter? Miss Balfour — was not that her 
name ? ” 

“Yes, Miss Balfour — Nina Balfour,” 
returned Mr. Grantham. “That is she, 
though she is Miss Balfour no longer.” 

“ Ah ! did mamma succeed in captur- 
ing the fat, forty, and not fair baronet 
round whom her nets were so persevering- 
ly spread? ” 

“ She succeeded admirably ! He was 
landed in the most scientific manner, his 
house was set in order, jewels were 
bought, the bride’s trousseau all ready, 
when lo I Miss Balfour walked quietly out 
of the house one morning, and was mar- 
ried to a captain in a marching regi- 
ment ! ” 

Mrs. Trafford lifted her eyebrows. 
“What did it mean? Was the girl 
mad ? ” 

“ If you hold love and madness to be 
synonymous terms — yes. It seems there 
was an old boy-and-girl love-affair be- 
tween them, half forgotten by both, until 
they met in London after her engage- 
ment; then the passion blazed up again 
with greater force than ever, and ended 
as I have said. The French, you know, 
have a proverb, ‘ On en revient toujours d 
ses premieres amours.'' I have never had 
much faith in its truth, but several affairs 
of this kind lately are beginning to con- 
vert me. May I ask what you think? 
Are your sex so sentimental at heart that 
a first lover always has an advantage over 
later ones ? ” 

His manner, as he asked the question, 
was a model of easy nonchalance; but 
something in the expression of his eyes, 
as they met Mrs. Trafford’s, told her 
that, with the instinct of a discomfited 
rival, he had leaped to the right conclu- 


174 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


sion with regard to Marchmont’s former 
acquaintance with herself. 

She was also conscious that March- 
mont was listening eagerly for her an- 
swer, and these things, acting on her like 
a defiance, steadied her in her self-posses- 
sion. 

“You ask a rather difficult question,” 
she answered, indifferently. “ General 
questions of that kind are always hard to 
answer, because so much depends upon 
the particular circumstances. Sometimes 
fir.t love is a passion, sometimes only a 
fancy; sometimes life proves its folly, 
sometimes teaches its wisdom. As a 
rule, however, I am not a believer in 
‘early romance.’ I hold it nearly akin 
to absurdity, or worse.” 

“What is worse than absurdity?” 
asked the man of the world, shrugging 
his shoulders lightly. 

Not long after this he took his depart- 
ure ; and Mariette’s attention being en- 
grossed by Captain Gresham, who was 
bending over her chair, Marchmont felt 
that he could venture to speak to Mrs. 
Trafford as freely as if they were alone. 

“Your answer to Mr. Grantham’s ques- 
tion was very non-committal,” he said, 
lowering his voice, and looking at her 
with expressive eyes; “but surely you 
believe, as 1 do, that first love is, after 
all, the only real love.” 

She laughed — that unembarrassed 
laugh which is by no means encouraging. 

“I think thOii first love^ as a general 
thing, is first folly fi she said ; “ but there 
are exceptions to all rules — and it is often 
useful as a peg upon which to hang remi- 
niscent sentiment.” 

The edge of sarcasm in her voice as 
she uttered the last w'ords checked the 
“reminiscent sentiment” of which she 
spoke, more effectually than anything 
else she could have done. ' 

Instinctively Marchmont felt that he 
had over-estimated the power which the 
past held for this woman and that the 
task of winning her heart again might be 
more difficult than he had reckoned upon. 


Not for a moment, however, did the 
consideration occur to him that it might 
be impossible. It was not only vanity 
which blinded him to the obstacles in his 
way, but that sudden infatuation which 
such women as Mrs. Trafford inspire in 
the wisest of men. 

As he sat by her side, looking at her, 
listening to her, drinking deeper and 
deeper from the cup of Circe which she 
held to his lips, he heard no tone of 
Patti’s sweet voice, he saw hardly a feat- 
ure of the brilliant, crowded opera-house. 
Everything began and ended for him in 
the face by his side. 

Of this fact Mrs. Trafford was not 
likely to be in any doubt. Too often had 
she seen the signs of passion to fail in 
reading them now ; and when they parted 
— when he had handed her into her car- 
riage on her way to the balls where other 
men would sun themselves in her beauty 
and listen to her beguiling accents — her 
last words were: 

“At three to-morrow, then. Good- 
night.” 

“Considering that you do not like 
our old friend, Amy,” said Mariette, as 
the carriage rolled away, “ I think you 
are very gracious to him.” 

“ Why should you imagine that I do 
not like him? ” asked Mrs. Trafford. “ I 
have never said so.” 

The other laughed. 

“No, you have never said so, but I 
know very well when you like or dislike 
a person; and you dislike Mr. March- 
mont — of that I am quite sure. I can’t 
help thinking it odd, too,” she added. 
“ He is exceedingly handsome — I watched 
his line of profile to-night, while he talked 
to you — and very agreeable.” 

Mrs. Trafford did not choose to dis- 
cuss the grounds of her dislike to this at- 
tractive gentleman, so she said : “I think 
you are making a serious conquest of 
Captain Gresham, Mariette. He seems 
to haunt us of late.” 

“ He is not disagreeable — for an Eng- 
lishman,” said Mariette, in whose eyes 


AFTER ALL, OLD THINGS ARE BEST. 


175 


the sons of Albion had not yet found 
favor. “ He bores one a little, but one 
grows used to that ; and if, some day, he 
should screw his courage to the sticking- 
point of proposal, it would be pleasant to 
be called ‘ My lady ! ’ ” i 

“ I hoped you would not think of such ! 
things,” said Mrs. Trafford, in a slightly 
troubled voice. “I hoped that you, at 
least, might marry for love, and love 
only.” 

Mariette’s gay laugh floated out with 
a silver ring of mockery in it. 

“ What ! a Saul among the prophets ! 
You sentimental, Amy ! You surely have 
forgotten what you said to me when I 
came to you from my Roman convent: , 
^ Amuse yourself with men as long and | 
as much as you like ; but never believe a | 
word they say, and, above all, never love 
them ! ’ You see I have profited by your 
instruction and your example.” 

There was a moment’s silence ; then, 
in a grave tone, Mrs. Trafford said : 

“ I am sorry that I gave you such a 
text as that ; it was a very poor one for i 
a girl just beginning life. I understand | 
some things better than I did then. I j 
begin to realize that it is not wise to | 
revenge the falsity and cruelty of one ^ 
man on all his sex. There are men whom | 
one may believe, and men worth loving, j 
I hoped that you, who have been shielded : 
from all that made the bitterness of my ' 
early life, would find one of them.” j 

“ Have you found one, that your phi- | 
losophy should change so much?” asked | 
Mariette. 

But, before Mrs. Trafford could an- 
swer that searching question, the carriage 
drew up before the door of the house to j 
which they were bound. I 

To say that Nelly Paget was not | 
piqued by the open desertion of the man 
whose devotion to her had been that of | 
a lover, and who had hovered so closely | 
on the verge of a declaration that he I 
might have felt himself as much bound 
in honor as if he had made it, would be I 
12 


to say that she was no woman. For- 
tunately for herself, she was not in love 
with him ; but misplaced fancy can some- 
times suffer very sensible pain, and Nelly 
might have known some acute pangs but 
for the timely advent of Mr. Reade. 
There is no balm to a woman for the loss 
of one admirer like the attentions of an- 
other. “ Every one does not fail to value 
me,” she thinks ; and what seemed com- 
mon enough before rises immensely in 
her estimation. 

So it was in the present instance. 
Though she had jested to March mont of 
his “early love,” Nelly certainly had not 
expected that the same early love would 
so promptly, so easily reclaim him. She 
had not at first recognized how entirely 
his allegiance was transferred, but when 
the full realization came to her, there 
could be no doubt of her mortification. 
In such a case a woman feels that her 
power of charming must be weak indeed, 
when a man’s heart can wander from her 
so lightly ; and toward Marchmont Nelly’s 
predominant feeling was one of keen re- 
sentment. “A man has been flirting — 
has been worse than flirting — when he 
says everything except the worda^ and 
then coolly walks off! ” she thought. 
“No doubt he believes that I was ready, 
willing, waiting, to answer ‘Yes’ when- 
ever he vouchsafed to propose. To think 
how he looked, how he spoke, how he 
held my hand! Oh, the wretch! — how 
dared he! I will never forgive him — 
never, as long as I live ; and I hope Mrs. 
Trafford will trifle with him and fool 
him, as people say she has fooled other 
men ! ” 

All this, however, transpired in the 
seclusion of her own breast. She was at 
once too wise and too proud to let March- 
mont detect any sign of mortification or 
resentment. Her manner to him scarcely 
varied at all, save, perhaps, that it was 
a shade more careless than it had been 
before ; but there was an intangible 
restraint on his part whenever chance 
threw them alone together. 


176 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


Chance performed this kind office for 
them a day or two after the visit to Dins- 
more’s studio. Since that time March- 
mont had seen very little of the party 
with which he had before been identified. 
His attention and thoughts were centred 
on Mrs. Trafford, and he became that 
lady’s shadow whenever and wherever 
she would allow it. 

Nevertheless, his nominal connection 
with the Paget party continued, and, on 
entering their sitting-room one day, he 
was a little disconcerted to find Nelly 
alone. 

She was in carriage -costume even to 
. her hat, and, while engaged in arranging 
some flowers, was standing exactly where 
she stood on the evening when he so 
nearly proposed to her — the evening they 
dined with Mrs. Trafford. 

She glanced up and nodded with a 
smile, but did not pause in her occupa- 
tion. 

“ Good-day, Mr. Marchmont,” she 
said, easily. “I believe this is the first 
time I have seen you to-day ? ” 

“ I am sorry to say that it is,” JVfarch- 
mont answered. “I seem to see very 
little of you of late,” he added, carrying 
the war into Africa with ready audacity. 
“ My place is so entirely usurped by Mr. 
Reade, that I have more than once felt 
myself de trop ; and since such a sensa- 
tion is not pleasant to one’s vanity, and 
I avoid on principle all unpleasant things, 
I have refrained from inflicting it on my- 
self.” 

Nelly’s bright, honest eyes looked at 
him with an expression approaching to 
scorn. 

“ Candor is your chief virtue — isn’t 
it, Mr. Marchmont?” she said, with an 
inflection of contempt in her voice. “ I 
should judge so. You certainly have 
seen and suffered a good deal from Mr. 
Reade’s usurpation. A propos^ how does 
the revival of your old friendship with 
Mrs. Trafford progress ? ” 

It would have pleased him to think 
that tliis question had its origin in jeal- 


ousy ; but, looking at the face, and meet- 
ing the smile of the speaker, he felt that 
it was impossible to lay such flattering 
unction to his soul. He was a man wha 
had never suffered himself to be absolute- 
ly blinded by vanity, and he now recog- 
nized very plainly the unpalatable fact 
that his power with Nelly Paget was 
over. 

“My old friendship with Mrs. Traf- 
ford has been revived very pleasantly,” 
he replied. “ She is a woman who would 
make friendship, old or new, agreeable.”’ 

“So I imagine,” said Nelly, quietly. 
“She is also a woman who, if accounts 
are to be trusted, has made flirtation a 
fine art. I hope sincerely that you won’t 
suffer again from her hands what you 
suffered once before. I believe you said 
she trifled with your affections long ago.” 

“ We had a youthful episode du 
he answered, with a laugh ; “ but I hardly' 
think it amounted to trifling on either 
side ; it was rather one of those delight- 
ful 'early romances that circumstances 
often nip in the bud.” 

“And later circumstances sometimes 
bring to full flower. That would be most 
romantic of all — quite like a novel, in 
fact, where the husbands and wives die 
off in the most obliging manner, so as to 
allow the hero and heroine to come to- 
gether at last.” 

“ What are you talking about, Nelly ? 
asked Mrs. Paget entering the room at 
the moment. She had caught the last 
words, and she felt a little scandalized. 
To talk to a widower of husbands and 
wives djdng off in the most obliging man- 
ner, seemed to her a grave transgression 
of good feeling and propriety. 

Nelly laughed, and, walking to a mir- 
ror, began fastening a knot of roses on 
the lace scarf which was crossed over her 
dress. 

“I was congratulating Mr. March- 
mont on being able to test in his own 
person that, ‘after all, old things are 
best,’ ” she answered, lightly. “ When 
the old things are as charming as Mrs. 


“I REMEMBER WELL.” 


177 


Trafford, it may be so; but, for my part, 
I think I prefer new ones.” 

“ As, for example, Mr. Reade? ” asked 
Marchmont, with a slightly forced smile. 

She looked at him coolly. “ As, for 
example, Mr. Reade, or any one else who 
amuses me,” she replied. 

And it needed nothing further to as- 
sure him that, let his suit with Mrs. Traf- 
ford speed as it would, the door to for- 
tune was barred to him here. 


CHAPTER XI. 

“l EEMEMBER WELL.” 

The next week or two was undoubt- 
edly the most feverish and uncomfortable 
period of Amy Trafford’s life. Old mem- 
ories of the past tugging at her, and 
urging her to resentment ; a struggling 
conscience vaguely protesting, and a 
heart dimly awakening — these influences, 
together with an amount of social 'dis- 
sipation calculated to tax the strongest 
physique beyond its strength, made up a 
state, inwardly and outwardly, to which 
she ever afterward looked back with a 
shudder. 

Yet its outward aspect was certainly 
brilliant. Never had she floated more 
triumphantly on the topmost wave of life 
than she floated now. Her grace, her 
beauty, her wealth, all combined to win 
admittance for her to the most exclusive 
houses in London. 

Dinners, balls, kettle-drums, garden- 
parties, followed one another in what, 
to a novice, would have been a bewilder- 
ing succession ; her card-basket over- 
flowed with cards, and Mrs. Traflford’s 
toilets, Mrs.. Traflbrd’s dinners, Mrs. Traf- 
ford’s fascinations, were among the topics 
of the season. 

To Mrs. Trafford much of this was 
weariness of the flesh and of the spirit ; 
but to stop at will in the treadmill called 
pleasure is not allowed to those who 
have once fairly entered upon it. 


Owing to a superb constitution, she 
had up to this time been able to resist 
the wear and tear of fashionable dissipa- 
tion remarkably well ; but she had always 
heretofore had a mind and heart at ease. 
Now, for the first time, neither mind nor 
heart was in that condition, and the re- 
sult was apparent in her variations of 
lassitude and excitement, her sudden 
though not great loss of flesh and color. 

In truth, she had overrated her 
strength in the part she undertook to 
play with Marchmont. Never before 
had she set herself to the dissimulation 
necessary for ensnaring a man in whom 
she felt no interest. That alone would 
have wearied her inexpressibly ; but, when 
to want of interest was added absolute 
repugnance, the effort became greater 
than she had at all reckoned upon. 

N'or was this her only source of dis- 
quietude. Colonel Danesford’s devotion 
had reached a point when it ceased alto- 
gether to gratify, and only annoyed her. 
Nevertheless, she liked him sufficiently 
to feel averse to uttering the final words 
which would put an end to his hopes. 

For a little while after that scene in 
Richmond Park she had asked herself 
whether she might not marry him, and 
had almost persuaded herself that it 
would be a good thing to do so. An old 
name, a stainless character, an ample 
fortune, a heart devoted to her— what 
more’ than this could she ask ? 

Colonel Danesford’s fate, if he had 
only known it, hung in the balance for 
several days ; and if — ah, these ifs ! what 
a part they play in human life! — if he 
had urged his suit again, the answer 
might have been all that he desired. But 
there was no good fairy to whisper this, 
and so for him, as for many another man, 
the moment of opportunity slipped by 
unheeded. 

It ended in the hour when Mrs. 
Trafford met the clear, honest eyes of 
her old friend and lover. Somehow, 
those eyes seemed to make her realize, 
as she had not realized before, the hoi- 


178 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


lowness of her life and its object. To 
wear costumes devised by Worth, to win 
the admiration of men, to excite the envy 
of women, to go from capital to capital, 
and lead the same idle, aimless life in 
each — all this seemed suddenly very poor 
and empty, when Hugh Dinsmore looked 
at her across all the years which had 
separated them, and mutely asked how it 
had fared with her since they parted. 

When a body has been wrapped in 
lethargy, the consciousness of pain is 
often a sign of returning health ; and so 
it was with this woman’s spirit. To suf- 
fer is to live — alas, that the converse of 
the proposition should be so often true ! 
— and her soul, waking from the stupor 
in which it had lain so long, suffered with 
a pain which mastered all its faculties. 

In truth, that nature must be very 
frivolous which a life such as she led can 
satisfy ; and its multifarious amusements 
and occupations began to fall on her with 
a sense of satiety which can hardly be 
expressed. 

These causes of dissatisfaction, taken 
in connection with others which need not 
be indicated, made this period, as has 
been already said, one of restless and 
fevered excitement to her; and so it 
chanced one day that she was incapaci- 
tated by a severe headache from attend- 
ing a splendid garden fete^ in anticipation 
of which “ ravishing ” toilets had been 
ordered from Paris for herself and Mari- 
ette. 

To expect the latter to surrender the 
pleasure of wearing this toilet on such 
an occasion, would have been to ask too 
much from human nature, when human 
nature was only eighteen. Under Lady 
Gresham’s chaperonage Mariette went to 
the fete blithe as a butterfly, while Mrs. 
Trafford, to her own relief, was left at 
home. 

As the afternoon wore away, the great 
pain she had been enduring ceased almost 
altogether, but left her languid and ex- 
hausted. In this state she was lying back 
in a deep chair before the window of her 


dressing-room, when Celine entered with 
a card. 

Mrs. Trafford motioned it away with- 
out looking at it. 

“ I am not at home to any one! ” she 
said, impatiently. “ Why do you trouble 
me in this manner ? ” 

“ A thousand pardons, madame 1 ” 
said the French maid ; “ but this gentle- 
man has brought a picture, and he de- 
sired that his card should be sent to 
madame, and, if she was not able to see 
him — ” 

“ A picture ! ” repeated madame. 
“ Give me the card.” 

She took it and read Dinsmore’s 
name. 

“ Send word to Mr. Dinsmore that I 
will be down presently,” she said, “and 
give orders that I am not at home to any 
one else. Return quickly, for I must 
make a toilet.” 

As the maid left the room, she rose 
and walked to a mirror. The reflection 
which it gave back was not calculated to 
gratify an exacting beauty. The severe 
pain which she suffered earlier in the day 
had left her complexion pale and her eyes 
dark-circled. 

“I would not see any one else when I 
am looking so dreadfully,” she mur- 
mured; “but he cares nothing for my 
looks. I do not think that he observes 
whether I am beautiful or frightful ; 
hence it is not worth while to decline to 
see him — considering that he comes so 
seldom.” 

When Celine returned, therefore, she 
had the pleasure of dressing her mistress 
very plainly — far too plainly, the lively 
Frenchwoman thought — simply winding 
her soft, abundant chestnut tresses round 
her head. 

“Gently, Celine — gently! ” Mrs. Traf- 
ford said, when she touched the last. 
“Remember, my head is very sensitive 
just now. I cannot endure any elaborate 
coiffure ; put up the hair as rapidly and 
easily as possible.” 

Celine obeyed, yet, in doing so, be- 


“I REMEMBER WELL.’ 


179 


stowed an artistic touch or two which 
gave the head a statuesque grace that 
suited the classic outline. “Madame is 
pale, but madame has never looked bet- 
ter,” she assured her mistress, who only 
answered, indifferently : 

“That will do. It does not matter 
how I look.” 

In this frame of mind she descended 
to the drawing-room; and when Hugh 
Dinsmore rose to meet her, he was more 
struck by her fair appearance than he had 
ever been before. 

One reason of this was because his ar- 
tistic eye at once noticed the absence of 
overloading adornment, and recognized 
the fact that real beauty is as surely en- 
hanced by simplicity as spurious beauty 
is destroyed by it. Even her pallor and 
languor were more attractive to him than 
the brilliancy of dress and manner in 
which he always suspected effort. 

“ I fear I have been very inconsider- 
ate,” he said, advancing and taking her 
offered hand. “ I was told that you were 
unwell, yet I persisted in sending up my 
card ; and now I am afraid you have ex- 
erted yourself beyond your strength in 
seeing me.” 

“ Do I look so shockingly ? ” she asked, 
smiling. “I flattered myself that you 
would not know whether I was well or 
ill. But I really am much better. This 
morning I suffered intensely with a severe 
headache, arising, no doubt, from irregu- 
lar hours and crowded rooms ; but it has 
worn off now, and I only feel a little ex- 
hausted.” 

“ You are feeling more than ‘a little 
exhausted,’ as your face betokens,” he 
said, looking at her with a kindliness of 
manner she had not seen him display be- 
fore. “ And you thought I would not 
know whether you were well or ill! 
Pray, do you think me so obtuse? — or 
what? ” 

“Indifferent, more likely. But we' 
will not discuss my appearance, which 
just at present interests me very little 
indeed.” 


“ I did not know that a woman’s ap- 
pearance — especially a beautiful woman’s 
appearance — ever failed to interest her! ” 
said he, with a smile. 

She glanced at him with a strangely 
wistful expression in her eyes. 

“If I were to tell you how little my 
appearance has interested me for some 
time past, you would not believe me,” she 
said. “Therefore it is not worth while 
to try your credulity.” 

“My dear Mrs. Trafford — ” he began, 
but she interrupted him, quickly. 

“Hay, Hugh, do not attempt to be 
other than absolutely true. Deception — 
even the least form of social deception — 
would ill suit you. Do not deny that you 
think me steeped to the lips in artifice. 
Have I not seen in your face that you dis- 
trust me entirely? ’It is rather late for 
empty compliments between us.” 

“ But I have a right to protest that 
you misjudge me,” said he. “I should 
be guilty of gross presumption if I at- 
tempted to sit in judgment on your char- 
acter.” 

“ But you cannot deny that you think 
me- artificial and insincere ! ” 

He looked at her steadily. If truth 
was to be spoken between them, he was 
evidently ready to speak it. 

“ All women of the world are more 
or less artificial and insincere, Mrs. Traf- 
ford,” he said. “ And I am not suffi- 
ciently acquainted with their characteris- 
tics to be able to tell where artifice ends 
and sincerity begins. If I have done you 
an injustice, forgive me, and believe that 
it was most unintentional.” 

“ You have done me every injustice ! ” 
she said, with sudden, passionate vehe- 
mence. “You have distrusted me without 
cause; you have judged and condemned 
me without knowledge ; you have made 
me feel that I possess neither your liking 
nor respect — ” 

“Pardon me if I interrupt you,” said 
he, gravely; “but may I beg to know 
why you should hold my opinion of suffi- 
cient importance to arraign it in this 


180 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


manner ? If you will be kind enough to 
answer that question, I will promise, on 
my part, to answer any that you choose 
to ask.” 

For a minute an obstruction seemed 
to rise in her throat and choke her so that 
she could not reply. Then she said : 

“ It is strange that you should ask me 
such a question. Whose opinion should I 
value in the world, if not yours? You 
are the last link with my old life ; and if 
you could know how much I need one 
true-hearted friend, I think that, for the 
sake of the old days we spent together, 
you would be that friend to me.” 

If ever there was honesty in human 
eyes, it was in hers as they looked at him 
— no longer beguiling and alluring, but 
sadly earnest. For an instant Dinsmore 
felt that he must believe in her. Then a 
sudden revulsion of feeling came over him, 
and he steeled his heart. 

“One true-hearted friend!” he re- 
peated. “ That means one more trophy 
of conquest — one more proof of power — 
does it not, Mrs. Trafford ? If I am rude, 
you will excuse me, perhaps, in memory 
of the old days of which you spoke a mo- 
ment ago. I remember well what I was 
to you then — an amusement, a conven- 
ience, a subject on which to practise those 
arts of coquetry which make you famous 
now. Do you think I care to fill the 
same position again ? — to lounge by your 
carriage — to have the distinction of lean- 
ing over your chair at the opera — to be 
invited to your dinners — to be known as 
the ‘ old friend ’ and latest caprice of the 
charming Mrs. Trafford? No! lam not 
the stuff of which such playthings ‘ for a 
fair woman’s foot’ are made twice. I 
told you, long ago, that our paths in life 
parted irrevocably ; and I see nothing in 
our accidental meeting to make me change 
my opinion. In your own rank of life, 
among your own associates, you surely 
can find friends better able to serve you 
than I am.” 

There was a moment’s silence after 
his voice ceased — a moment in w'hich 


Mrs. Trafford sat quiet and motionless. 
Never had she been so repulsed before ; 
never, during all these years tilled with ad- 
ulation and homage, had any man looked 
at her so fearlessly, spoken to her so 
boldly. Rude? Yes, there could be no 
doubt that he was rude ; but what silken 
words of flattery had ever stirred her 
heart like these? When she lifted her 
eyes to his face, even he was struck by 
the fact that there was no shadow of re- 
sentment in their depths — only the same 
wistful sadness deepened to appeal. 

“You are more unkind and unjust 
than I ever thought you could be,” she 
said. “But I suppose it is useless to 
argue against your convictions. You 
don’t believe in me ; that puts an end to 
the matter. Now, let us talk of something 
more entertaining. You have brought me 
Felix’s portrait — have you not? ” 

“ Unjust — unkind ! ” he said. “ I 
should be sorry to be guilty of either of 
these toward any one, but especially tow- 
ard you. If I mistrust you, have I not 
cause to do so? Look at the record of 
your life ! Even at the present time, how 
many men do you keep dangling in your 
train, to amuse your idle hours and offer 
incense at your shrine? You have lately 
added one ‘ old friend ’ to their number. 
Have I not cause, then, to suspect that 
you would not object to playing at senti- 
ment with another? ” 

A deep flush rose to her face as she 
understood to whom he alluded, but her 
eyes met his own steadily and clearly, a 
vivid light beginning to burn in their 
depths. 

“ Can it be possible,” she said, “ that 
you think me likely to find amusement 
or pleasure in the society of Brian March- 
mont ? Of course, it is not surprising that 
others should think so; but you — I did 
not fancy that you, who knew the story 
of the past, would be so deceived ! ” 

He gazed at her with a surprised and 
doubtful expression, which almost made 
her smile. 

“ How can I know what to believe ? ” 


“I REMEMBER WELL.” 


181 


he said. “Women are very strange be- 
ings. A man may be a scoundrel, and 
yet — sometimes, at least — a woman’s 
heart seems to cling to him, when better 
men fail to touch it.” 

For an instant she hardly compre- 
hended him. Then, as his meaning 
dawned on her — 

. “ . . . the very nape of her fair neck 
Was rosed with indignation.” 

“And you think that of me — that!'*'* 
she said, with scorn. “This is worse 
than all ! It is natural — I am willing to 
acknowledge that it is natural — that you 
should believe me a heartless coquette, 
an artificial woman of the world ; but to 
think me so lost to every sense of pride, 
so narrow of mind, so weak of nature, as 
to love Brian Marchmont ! great Heaven ! 
what words can express the degradation 
involved in such an idea ! ” 

There was no room to doubt the gen- 
uineness of passion here. It blazed in her 
syes, shone in spots of crimson on her 
cheeks, and curved her lips back from 
the milk-white teeth. Dinsmore hardly 
knew what he was doing as he took one 
of her hands. 

“Forgive me! ” he said ; “I see that 
I was wTong in thinking that he still had 
any hold on your heart. I scarcely knew 
what to believe. It seemed so unaccount- 
able that you should enroll that man, of 
all men, in your train of followers! — that 
you should distinguish him by your fa- 
vor — ” 

“ And why ? ” she interrupted, impet- 
uously. “ Are you so dull that you can- 
not tell ? I have marveled that even he 
has not understood my purpose in toler- 
ating him. It is simply that, when his ; 
vanity has misled him far enough, and i 
when he has lost the last chance of win- 
ning Miss Paget’s fortune, I may pay the 
debt which I vowed ten years ago that I 
would pay ; that I may return upon him, 
as far as lies in my power, all the indig- 
nity and pain he once inflicted upon me! 
That is why I have ‘ enrolled him among 


my followers and distinguished him by 
my favor.’ ” 

Her trenchant tone, her smile, cold as 
ice and keen as steel, made him realize 
so clearly how fixed and resolute was the 
purpose she expressed, that he was silent 
for fully a minute, before he said ; 

“lam sorry to hear it.” 

She looked at him with an expression 
of astonishment. 

“ Why should you be sorry ? ” she 
asked. “What is Brian Marchmont to 
you ? ” 

“ Brian Marchmont is nothing to me 
but a dishonorable scoundrel,” he an- 
swered, quietly. “You surely do not 
think that my regret is for him ? It is 
of you that I am thinking — of you alone.” 

“And what of me?” she asked. In- 
voluntarily her smile and her voice soft- 
ened. To be thought of — to be consid- 
ered in the least degree — was better than 
indiflference. 

“ This of you,” he replied, with a 
sudden impulse of frankness; “that, in 
descending to such a revenge, you are 
lowering yourself to a degree and in a 
manner far beyond the measure of any 
satisfaction which you will obtain from 
Marchmont’s humiliation. Ho woman 
can play such a part without suffering in 
her self-respect — unless she has thrown 
self-respect more completely to the winds 
than I can force myself to believe that 
you have done, Mrs. Traffbrd.” 

“Thank you, for that much at least,” 
she said, in a low tone. “ And you are 
right — more right than you think. I 
have suflTered, I am suffering, from the 
part I have played with this man. I feel 
degraded by the touch of his hand, by 
the glance of his eye. I almost think it 
has made me ill,” she said, lifting her 
hand and pushing back the hair from her 
brow. “I overrated my strength, and I 
would gladly be done with it if I could.” 

“ And why can you not?” said he, 
earnestly. “ Believe me, one must stoop 
so low to revenge some injuries, that it 
is best to leave them unrevenged. Be- 


182 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


sides, if you make this man desperate, he 
may injure you more deeply than you can 
reckon upon.” 

Her lip curled superbly. 

“ I have no fear of tliat,” she said. 
“It is out of Brian Marchmont’s power 
ever to injure me again ! ” 

“ You can never be sure where or how 
an unscrupulous and desperate man may 
strike,” said Dinsmore. “ But for your 
own sake — I put him out of the question 
— you cannot end the matter too soon.” 

“I will end it at once — to-morrow if 
I can,” she said. “ I am anxious, fever- 
ishly anxious, to do so. And when it is 
ended — when you need no longer fear to 
meet him in this house — will you try to 
think less hardly of me, and let me see 
you more often ? ” 

When a beautiful woman pleads with 
eyes and voice, it is difficult for a man to 
withstand her, let the object of her plead- 
ing be what it will ; but when it is for a 
little more of his society, a degree more 
of his respect, refusal becomes not only 
difficult, but impossible. So Hugh Dins- 
more found it. 

“ I have never willingly thought hardly 
of you,” he said, “and I am sorry indeed 
that I have been in any manner unjust. 
One from my world has little place in 
yours ; but, if you care to see me, I shall 
be glad now and then to come. The por- 
trait which I have brought you is neglect- 
ed all this time, however. Will you look 
at it? I want your opinion on one or 
two points regarding the likeness.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

“the little less, and what woelds 

AWAY ! ” 

“ I AM glad to hear that you are bet- 
ter, Amy,” said Mariette, entering her 
sister’s dressing-room. “ Celine says that 
you have been well enough to see a vis- 
itor.” 


“ Only Hugh,” Mrs. Trafford answered. 
“He came to bring Felix’s portrait. I 
should not have thought of seeing any one 
else. I hope you have enjoyed yourself,” 
she went on, putting out her hand caress- 
ingly. “Was the fete a very grand af- 
fair?” 

“ Oh, very ! Quite the grandest affair 
of the season, as far as my experience 
goes. Everything was on a superb scale, 
and I saw no toilet more beautiful than 
mine. What a pity you were not able to 

I go!” 

“ I don’t feel so. I think I am grow- 
ing rather tired of dissipation. You can 
tell me all about it, and that will be better 
than having seen it myself. — How very, 
very pretty you look ! ” 

Mariette certainly did look very pretty 
as she stood before her sister, still wear- 
ing the costume which had been one of 
the most charming at the /efe, a delicate 
flush on her fair cheeks, a bright light in 
her lovely eyes. She glanced into a mir- 
ror, and laughed softly. 

“I suppose I am very pretty,” she 
said. “ I cannot else imagine why Cap- 
tain Gresham should have asked me to 
marry him.” 

A change of interest, rather than of 
surprise, came over Mrs. Trafford’s face. 
She had, for some time past, felt sure 
that Stamer Gresham’s devotion would 
culminate in a proposal. 

“ So he has asked you to marry him ? ” 
she said. “ What did you answer ? ” 

“Is there much room for doubt?” 
asked Mariette, laughing again, as she 
drew nearer and bent over the back of 
her sister’s chair. “Can you think it 
possible that I would refuse a future 
baronet? ” 

“ There is no need for you to consider 
thatf said Mrs. Trafford, quickly. “I 
mean, there is no need for you to accept 
him, if you do not feel sure that you care 
enough for him to accept him if there 
was no baronetcy in the question. Have 
you accepted him, Mariette? Do you 
care for him ? ” 


THE LITTLE LESS, AND WHAT WORLDS AWAY!’’ 


183 


“I like him very well,” answered 
Mariette, “ and — yes, I suppose I accepted 
him. I certainly meant to do so, hut the j 
matter was rather confused. Neverthe- ^ 
less, I think he understood. You cannot j 
deny, Amy, that to be Lady Gresham | 
some day, when Sir Charles is gathered 
to his fathers, will be a brilliant ending 
for Mariette Reynolds, whose father was j 
a music-teacher, and whose face is her 
fortune.” 

“ Whose face may be her fortune — 
but not all her fortune,” said Mrs. Traf- 
ford. “I have never told you before, 
because there has never been any reason 
to do so ; but I have always intended to 
settle half of my fortune on you at your 
marriage.” 

“ Half of your fortune ! O Amy 1 ” 
The girl bent and kissed her eagerly, i 
“ How generous, how kind you are ! But, { 
surely, do you do not mean half? ” 

“ I mean exactly and entirely half, and 
I make but one condition in doing so.” 

“ And that condition? ” 

“Is, that you marry the man you 
love — not the man who bids highest for 
your hand.” 

Astonishment was for a moment Mari- 
ette’s predominant sensation, then an ex- j 
pression of the most genuine amusement j 
swept over her face. 

“ You must forgive me, Amy,” she i 
cried, with a gay peal of laughter; “but 
the idea of you as a sentimentalist is too 
novel not to be ludicrous! What has 
come over you, that you should place 
such unaccustomed importance upon the 
heart? Don’t concern yourself about 
mine, 1 beg ; it is not likely to trouble 
me. I like Stamer Gresham as well as I 
shall ever like any one, I suppose ; at all 
events, I like him well enough to marry 
him. And, since you mean to endow me 
so magnificently, I presume his family 
will graciously consent to the alliance.” 

Mrs. Trafford turned so that she could j 
gaze full into the flower-like face, and j 
took the hand which rested nearest to 
her on the silken back of the chair. | 


“Are you in earnest, Mariette?” she 
asked, with gravity. “Do you really 
mean that you know no man whom you 
like better than Stamer Gresham ? ” 

“ I mean just that,” Mariette answered, 
meeting her gaze steadily. “ Whom could 
I like better? You surely do not suspect 
me of a hopeless fancy for one of your 
adorers ? ” 

“That is not likely,” Mrs. Trafford 
replied; but she did not say what she 
had suspected. “ I am only anxious that 
you should know your own heart — that 
you should not make one of those terri- 
ble mistakes which women do sometimes 
make, and which wreck their lives more 
utterly than you can imagine.” 

“There is not the least danger of it,” 
said Mariette, with cheerful confidence. 
“I assure you that I like Stamer very 
much, and I like the idea of being ‘ My 
lady’ still better. We may, therefore, 
consider the matter settled — unless Sir 
Charles and Lady Gresham should decline 
to receive me as the wife of their son.” 

Sir Charles and Lady Gresham were 
certainly very much concerned when they 
heard of the rash conduct of that young 
gentleman. To countenance the beauti- 
ful and wealthy widow on whom Colonel 
Danesford had set his heart, was one 
thing ; to receive an obscure and probably 
portionless girl as the wife of the heir 
and hope of the house of Gresham, was 
quite another. They argued, entreated, 
even commanded; but Stamer was firm 
as a rock. He loved Miss Reynolds pas- 
sionately, and he had asked her to marry 
him. On these facts he took his position, 
from which nothing could make him re- 
cede. The parents, therefore, were at 
last forced to concessions, and, the day 
after the proposal had been made. Lady 
Gresham betook herself to Mrs. Trafford, 
in order to make such inquiries with re- 
gard to Miss Reynolds as were natural 
under the circumstances. 

Mrs. Trafford received her with grace- 
ful courtesy, but without the least trace 
of increased cordiality. Her manner ex- 


184 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


pressed very clearly that, though ready 
to meet any friendly advances, she did 
not choose to make them. 

“Pray do not think it necessary to 
apologize,” she said, quietly, when the 
elder lady hinted something of the kind. 

“ It is surely right and proper that you 
should desire to know somewhat more 
of the woman your son wishes to marry 
than that she is a pretty, graceful girl. [ 
In point of family, I tell you frankly, we | 
have nothing of which to boast — neither 
have we anything of which to be ashamed. 
We were left orphans at an early age, and 
I married a man considerably older than 
myself, who, after caring for me and all 
connected with me, when he died most 
generously left me his entire fortune, 
unfettered by a single restriction. It 
amounts to more than a hundred thou- | 
sand pounds, and I have long intended to : 
settle half of it on my sister. I shall di- | 
rect my lawyer to take at once the proper j 
legal steps in the matter. And, if the 
possession of fifty thousand pounds can 
make amends for her want of noble birth, , 
you may rest satisfied. Lady Gresham, 
that she is endowed with that amount.” j 

“My dear Mrs. Trafford, such won- 
derful generosity — ” Lady Gresham be- | 
gan, but Mrs. Trafibrd quietly interposed ; 

“Excuse me, but I do not consider 
that there is any generosity in the matter. 
It is a duty which I have always meant 
to fulfill — which my husband would have 
fulfilled had he not known that he could 
trust me to do so. I am not making any 
bid for the honor of your alliance. Lady 
Gresham ; I am simply telling you what 
I should do whoever my sister’s suitor j 
chanced to be.” , 

The quiet tone, the haughty smile, 
made Lady Gresham recognize this fully. 
In fact, she was surprised almost beyond 
the power of speech — surprised at the 
woman who could so coolly give away j 
fifty thousand pounds — still more suprised j 
at Stainer’s good luck ; for it may be said | 
that the fortunes of the Greshams were ' 
by no means so flourishing as they might ! 


have been ; and a girl with a dower of 
fifty thousand pounds, with enough beau- 
ty and grace, for the bride of a prince, 
and whose objectionable relations — if she 
possessed any — were safe in a distant 
country, was a veritable Godsend. 

“I am more than satisfied, my dear 
Mrs. Trafiford,” she said, after a moment’s 
reflection. “ You must, of course, appre- 
ciate the natural anxiety of parents when 
anything so important as the marriage of 
their son is concerned. With Miss Rey- 
nolds personally, both Sir Charles and 
myself have been charmed, and we shall 
be happy to welcome her as a daughter- 
in-law.” 

So the matter was arranged, and pret- 
ty Mariette, with her dower of fifty thou- 
sand pounds, was formally acknowledged 
fiancee of the heir of Gresham. 

It may readily be imagined that this 
event was more trying than gratifying to 
Colonel Danesford. To see his nephew 
win so readily the girl on whom he had 
set his heart, while he, whose wooing had 
been so much longer, still hung in a state 
of uncertainty on Mrs. Trafford’s caprice, 
was not only far from agreeable, but 
brought home to him the consciousness 
of his own folly so strongly, that it gave 
him the resolution to end it. 

“I will insist on a definite answer, 
and will abide by it,” he said, as he found 
himself in Mrs. Trafford’s drawing-room 
awaiting her appearance, a day or two 
after these events. 

As if to make this resolution doubly 
hard for him to execute, she came in, 
looking more beautiful than usual, and 
held out one slender hand with her most 
graceful air of familiar friendship. 

“I suppose you have heard that you 
are to be Mariette’s uncle?” she said, 
with a laugh. “ Have you come to ofi'er 
protestations, or congratulations?” 

“ My congratulations have been otTered 
to Stamer,” he answered. “ I think him 
the most fortunate fellow I know; and 
his wooing has been accomplished in such 
short order, that I can’t help envying 


“THE LITTLE LESS, AND AVHAT WORLDS AWAY! 


185 


him, too. It must be a great thing to 
know that the happiness which one covets 
most is in one’s grasp.” 

She understood so well what he 
meant, that even her conscience — hereto- 
fore very callous where matters of the 
heart were concerned — suffered a twinge. 
The bright bloom deepened on her cheek, 
though her eyes met his with their pe- 
culiar frankness. 

“ I am glad you have spoken thus. 
Colonel Danesford,” she said. “It gives 
me an opportunity to make an explana- 
tion to you which should, have been made 
long ago. I blame myself very much for 
not having made it sooner — but, alas! 
blaming one’s self avails very little when 
the harm has been done.” 

He now knew what was coming, and, 
despite himself, his bronzed cheek turned 
a little paler. As he looked at her, there 
was a pleading wistfulness in his eyes 
which she remembered long afterward, 
and his voice was shaken with an in- 
tensity of feeling beyond control, as he 
said : 

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t tell me 
that, after all, I am nothing to you ! ” 

“ I could not possibly tell you that,” 
she said, very gently. “You are a great 
deal to me, and I wish — fi-om my heart, 
Colonel Danesford, I wish — that you were 
more 1 ” 

It was not a conventional speech, and 
she was not a conventional woman — in- 
deed, so strikingly unconventional, that a 
great part of her charm lay in that fact. 
It was not possible for him to doubt her 
sincerity or her meaning, but he could 
not command himself sufficiently to 
speak, and, after a moment’s pause, she 
went on : 

“You have a right to think that I 
have treated you shamefully, and I don’t 
know that it is any excuse to say that I 
did not mean to do so. A few weeks ago 
I thought, for a little while, that I might 
marry you ; but now I see that I should 
be inflicting on you the greatest possible 
harm and injury if I did such a thing. 


Do you believe in love, Coloned Danes- 
ford?” 

“You must have little idea what I 
feel for you, when you can ask me such 
a question ! ” he answered, hoarsely. 

“Then what would you think of a 
woman who married you without loving 
you, as you so well deserve to be loved ? 
Surely you are not like some men — surely 
you would not be satisfied to take the 
hand without the heart ? ” 

“ I should not be satisfied unless I pos- 
sessed the whole heart of the woman who 
gave me her hand,” he replied. “ But 
why is it impossible that I should win 
yours? I will wait, Mrs. Trafford, even 
longer than I have waited already, if you 
can give me any hope of winning it at last.” 

“I am sorry,” she said — “oh! very 
sorry ! — but I must tell you frankly that 
there is no hope. If you could have won 
it, it would have been yours long ago. I 
have not meant to trifle with you,” she 
went on. “I wish you would believe 
that. Since I have appreciated what you 
are, I have often wondered why I do not 
love you ; but one cannot answer such 
questions. Perhaps I have no heart — at 
least, it is certain I have none worth giv- 
ing you!''' 

At this point, the sore jealousy which 
had been rankling in him for some time 
could not forbear expression. 

“Perhaps,” he said, a little bitterly, 
“you have thought it worth giving to 
your old friend Mr. Marchmont.” 

Her eyes looked at him with a singu- 
lar expression in their lustrous depths — 
an expression not easily defined, but in 
which scorn played a large part. 

“Is it possible,” she said, “that you 
can think so poorly of me as to imagine 
that I would turn from you to give my 
heart to him J I do not deny that he has 
reason to believe such a thing, but you 
should know me better. No, Colonel 
Danesford, there is not a man on the face 
of the earth to whom I could not sooner 
give my heart than to my ‘old friend 
Mr. Marchmont ! ’ ” 


186 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“ And yet — ” he said, then paused, 
remembering that he had no right to 
arraign her. 

“And yet, you would say, you have 
seen me lead him on to certain disap- 
pointment and mortification. That is very 
true — so true, that, since I should like to 
retain your respect, 1 will tell you what 
reason I have for treating this man with 
what appears such heartlessness.” 

“You are mistaken,” he said, “if you 
think that, under any circumstances, I 
could fail to give you other than respect. 
T'ou have been the one woman in the 
world to me too long, for me ever to 
cease to think of you as one whom I ad- 
mire only less than I love.” 

At these generous words her eyes soft- 
ened with unshed tears. Once again she i 
asked herself what perverse spirit kept 
her from loving this gallant gentleman? 
But — 

“. . . the little more, and how much it is ! 

Ajid the little less, and what worlds away ! ” 

Such riddles are beyond all solving. 
Why should the “little less” not be a 
“little more?” Who is wise enough to 
answer? 

“You are far kinder than I deserve, 
and I thank you with all my heart,” she 
said, in a voice like spoken music. “ But 
I think I will tell you my story' It can 
do no harm, and, after you have heard it, 
you will understand me better than you 
do now.” 

So she told him the story of the brief, 
ill-fated passion of her girlhood, with its 
attendant results on her life, and de- 
scribed how Fate had seemed, despite all 
her efforts, to thrust Marchmont into her 
path again, and put the means of revenge 
ready to her hand. 

“ I feel as if I were lowering myself 
in playing such a part,” she said, in con- 
clusion ; “ yet I am not only paying my 
debt to him, but I am saving a true-hearted 
girl from a marriage which could not be 
other than wretched.” 

“Nevertheless, you are lowering your- 


self,” said Danesford, as Hugh had said 
before him. “ The revenge is not worthy 
of you. And is it possible,” he went on, 
with passionate reproach, “ that you will 
let the shadow of this man lie on your 
heart and keep you from loving again 
— you, who could love so truly and so 
well?” 

She shook her head. 

“ No,” she said. “ His shadow passed 
away from me long, long ago. But such 
a passion is like a fire that scorches all 
natural vegetation. No man who has 
entered my life since my widowhood has 
touched anything deeper than my vanity 
— until I met you. You have won every- 
thing except my heart.” 

“ And for the last time,” said he, tak- 
ing her hand, “tell me is there no hope 
of winning that by patience and devo- 
tion ? ” 

She was strong enough to meet his 
pleading eyes gravely and steadily with 
her own. 

“ I must make no more mistakes, give 
no more false encouragement, my dear 
Colonel Danesford,” she said. “You 
must forgive me if you can — there is no 
hope! ” 

There was a moment’s silence ; then 
he bent his head and kissed her hand. 

“ God bless you I ” he said, huskily. “ 1 
have nothing to forgive.” 

The next instant she found herself 
alone. 

She sat quite motionless where he left 
her, gazing at the hand on which the sen- 
sation of his kiss still lingered. 

“Is this wisdom, or folly? ” she said 
to herself. “It seems incredible that I 
should have found one such heart in the 
artificial world where my life is cast. I 
am not likely ever to find another. Am 
I not mad to cast it away — for what? A 
mere sentiment, an unreality, which at 
my age should have lost all influence over 
me.” 

What would have been the end of this 
reflective regret, it is impossible to say ; 
but her thoughts were suddenly dissipated 


SCORES ARE SETTLED BETWEEN US.’ 


187 


by a voice at the door behind her an« 
nouncing — 

“ Mr. Reade ! ” 

She started, and turned quickly as the 
young artist advanced across the floor 
with a springing tread and a beaming 
face. 

“My dear Mrs. Trafford, you will par- 
don me, I am sure, for intruding on you 
so unceremoniously, when you hear that 
I have come to claim your congratula- 
tions,” he said, joyously. “ But for your 
kindness, such good fortune would never 
have come to pass. Miss Paget has ac- 
cepted me ! ” 

“ I am truly glad to hear it, and I con- 
gratulate you with all my heart ! ” an- 
swered Mrs. Trafford, cordially extending 
her hand. “ It is very good of you to 
recognize my interests, and to come and 
give me the intelligence at once. I take 
it for granted that the engagement is not 
of long standing? ” 

“Three hours, exactly!” answered 
he, laughing. “I felt that I was in grat- 
itude bound to communicate the happy 
result to you without loss of time, since 
but for your encouragement it would 
hardly be an accomplished fact.” 

“I think you are mistaken in that,” 
said she, smiling, “though I am not 
averse to claiming a little share in bring- 
ing it about. I think you are a happy 
man, Mr. Reade. I am sure you look as 
if you were ! ” 

“I am, indeed,” said he. “In all 
England there is not a happier man. 
Such exaltation of feeling cannot last, 
of course; but Nelly is a girl whom any 
man might be proud, as well as happy, to 
win.” 

“I have not the least doubt of it,” 
said Mrs. Trafford. “ I was charmed with 
her when we first met; and I told you 
then — do you remember? — that you 
should be doubly anxious to win, since 
winning her meant saving her from the 
man who was your rival.” 

“I remember; and I am so well con- 
vinced that you were right, that it makes 


me doubly happy that I have won, and 
he—'' 

“ Has lost more than he knows I ” 
said Mrs. Trafford, with a swift flash in 
her eyes. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

“scores are settled between us.” 

Marchmont was soon destined to 
learn what he had lost. Despite his 
change of matrimonial intentions, the 
news of Nelly Paget’s engagement was 
a shock to him. Without exactly saying 
to himself that he would hold her in his 
hand to fall back upon in case his ambi- 
tion with regard to Mrs. Trafford failed, 
he had felt something of the kind, and 
now he was told that the prize which he 
I had relinquished another man had grasped 
1 without loss of time. At that moment, 
j according to a common impulse of human 
I nature, it seemed to him better worth 
grasping than it had ever seemed before. 
Perhaps this was owing to the desperate 
I state of his affairs, and the forebodings 
I he entertained of Mrs. Trafford’s caprice. 
At least, it is certain that a doubt of his 
own wisdom was the first thought which 
rose to his mind when Walter Paget told 
him the news. 

“Honestly, I don’t fancy the affair 
very much,” that gentleman said. “A 
foreigner, a painter, a man that we know 
very little about, is by no means my ideal 
of a brother-in-law. But Nelly, like most 
women, is determined to have her own 
way, and there is really no very strong 
ground for objection.” 

“ It seems to me that the matter has 
been arranged in a short time,” said 
Marchmont, as soon as he could control 
his voice to speak. “ Miss Paget has not 
known Mr. Reade very long.” 

“Cupid does not take long to draw 
his bow! ” replied Mr. Paget, with a 
slight shrug. “I proposed to my wife 
on a week’s acquaintance. Nelly and 
Reade have been very much thrown to- 


188 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


gether of late — especially since you re- 
newed your old friendship with Mrs. 
Trafford.” 

This last shot effectually stopped all 
further words on Marchmont’s lips. Yes, 
there could be no doubt that the renewal 
of his “ old friendship ” with Mrs. Traf- 
ford was at the bottom of the whole 
affair. But for that, he knew that Nelly 
Paget would be engaged to Mm^ instead 
of to this stranger who had so lately en- 
tered her life. 

“If all goes well, I shall not regret 
it,” he thought. “But the question is, 
•loill all go well ? When I am with Amy, 
I cannot distrust her ; but whenever I am 
away from her, all manner of doubts as- 
sail me. If she should be playing the 
same game with me which she has played 
with other men, I am simply ruined ! ” 

So much was now staked on the vent- 
ure, that he felt nervously afraid to con- 
sider it — nervously afraid to make the 
final plunge, and “ win or lose it all.” 
Yet he knew that the sooner this was 
done, the better. Other men — men with 
pretensions in every way higher than his 
own — were thronging round Mrs. Traf- 
ford, and the man who won her at all 
must win her boldly. 

After parting with Walter Paget some- 
where in the neighborhood of midnight, 
he smoked a cigar of meditation before 
retiring. He was not a man much given 
to reflections on the past, hut it was im- 
possible, at such a crisis as the present, 
to refrain from thinking of the wonderful 
turn which Fortune’s wheel had made in 
his relations with the woman who had 
been Amy Reynolds. His mind went 
back vividly to those old days in Edger- 
ton, when, in flirting with her, he had 
lost one of the most desirable of the suc- 
cession of heiresses at whose golden 
shrines he had bowed. Recalling this, it 
began to seem to him a simple matter of 
poetic justice that she, who had twice 
stood between him and fortune, should 
bring fortune to him at last in her own 
hand. 


This sanguine belief came to him 
strongly when he awoke the next day, 
and decided that before its sun went 
down his fate should be assured. 

“ Colors seen by candle-light 
Do not look the same by day,” 

and the doubt and indecision of the night 
before were altogether dissipated. Rea- 
son, instinct, knowledge of womankind — 
all combined to say that, when he went 
to woo, he also went to win. He could 
not seriously entertain the idea that, in 
leading him on as she had done, Mrs. 
Trafford had only been trifling. Coquette 
though she might be with some men, it 
was impossible that he had anything to 
fear — he who had once swayed her as 
the wind sways a reed ! 

He offered his congratulations to Miss 
Paget with a cordiality in which there 
was not the least suggestion of disap- 
pointment; and if Nelly had hoped, ac- 
cording to the fashion of women, for 
some such sign, she was not gratified. 

Yet, it must not he supposed from 
this that pique had played any large part 
in causing her to accept Reade. That 
she was not averse to showing March- 
mont how slight an impression he had 
made on her fancy, there can be no 
doubt ; but this desire alone would never 
have urged her to such a step. 

The young artist had found his op- 
portunity when her mind and heart were 
enduring the sting of neglect, and he used 
it so well that he had entered into both, 
and possessed them as a kingdom. 

She was heartily and happily in lore 
with the man who had won her; never- 
theless, she would have liked to read 
some token of regret in the face of the 
man who had lost her. 

There was none, however, to be read. 
An adept for many years in the art of 
concealing all that he felt, it was not 
likely that such a desirable accomplish- 
ment should fail Marchmont now. It 
was, moreover, a consoling thought that 
he had not been defeated, but had volun- 


SCORES ARE SETTLED BETWEEN US.’ 


189 


tarily relinquished the opportunity which 
Fate placed in his hands. The time might 
come when he would regret this oppor- 
tunity, but it had not come yet ; it would 
not come while Mrs. Trafford’s beauty 
and wealth still hung before him as a 
glittering prize. 

Of late he had been admitted by that 
lady to a position of very pleasant inti- 
macy; and he availed himself of it to- 
day, by presenting himself at rather an 
early hour in the drawing-room. 

“ I must apologize for such an un- 
seasonable visit,” he said, when she en- 
tered; “but I wanted so much to find 
you alone, that I ventured to intrude up- 
on you at this hour. I hope you will 
pardon me.” 

“Very readily,” she answered, quiet- 
ly, though even her brave heart quailed 
a little as she thought that the issue of 
battle was before her. “ But you must 
not be surprised if you find me stupid,” 
she added. “ The wear-and-tear of Lon- 
don dissipation is beginning to tell on me ; 
and, if I do not soon go away in search of 
pastures new and fresh, I fear I shall 
fall into the ranks of the hopelessly 
dull.” 

“ That is not very probable,” he said, 
with a smile. “But you are looking a 
trifle pale.” 

“ It is not remarkable. I have had a 
great deal on my mind, if not on my 
heart, lately. As if it were not trouble 
enough that I am to lose Mariette, I am 
harassed with legal business in connection 
with that loss.” 

“I have heard that you have been 
most generous in settling part of your 
fortune on her.” 

“Generous? I hate that word!” 
said she, impatiently. “ Is it strange 
that I should divide a fortune already 
larger than my wants with the sister who 
has been more of a child than a sister to 
me ? ” 


I 


I 


I 


I 


“ When you speak of dividing, you 
do not mean to imply that you give half 
of it to her?” asked he, unable to re- 


strain altogether the consternation which 
he felt. 

She looked at him keenly as she an- 
swered: “I mean just that. My lawyer 
is now engaged in settling half on her as 
securely as it can be settled.” 

Marchmont barely escaped saying 
“Good Heavens!” aloud. He was dis- 
mayed to the point of disgust, and he 
wished most devoutly that he was in a 
position to remonstrate with Mrs. Traf- 
ford on her folly. But good sense and 
good taste both forbade such an idea, 
and forced him to conceal his disgust and 
dismay as best he could. There was no 
doubt that, even bereft of half her for- 
tune, the beautiful widow was worth 
gaining: but the thought of that lost 
half annoyed him terribly. 

“ Miss Reynolds has a very brilliant 
life before her,” he said, presently. “It 
is difficult to realize that the future Lady 
Gresham was ever the little golden-haired 
Mariette of Edgerton.” 

He had learned long since that she 
never shrank from any allusion to Edger- 
ton and her old life there. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Trafford, calmly, “it 
is difficult to realize what marvelous 
changes money can work. I am even 
more of an example than Mariette. It 
sometimes requires an absolute effort for 
me to fancy that I ever was Amy Rey- 
nolds, living in hap-hazard Bohemian pov- 
erty, and looking to stage-triumphs as my 
highest hope in life ! ” 

“Yet what happy days they were ! ” 
said he, regarding her with the same 
glance which had thrilled her so often in 
the days of which they were talking. “ I 
don’t know how you may regard them, 
Mrs. Trafford, but to me they are the one 
spot of romance — of romance the most 
true and tender — in a worldly life. It 
would be impossible for me to tell you 
how often, during all these years, I have 
paused in the midst of excitement, toil, 
and struggle, to dream of the garden in 
which we spent so many happy hours, of 
the woodland glen where I found you 


190 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


first, and of the old parlor where you so 
often sang to me. ITet I never ventured 
to hope that we should meet again — that 
I should ever sit by you as now, and find 
the promise of your girlhood more than 
fulfilled in your beauty and your charms.” 

He held himself in check very well, 
mindful that in such a game as this he 
must make every move with caution, and 
his voice was eloquent with an expres- 
sion which only sincerity could have 
given. In fact, if Marchmont ever was 
sincere, he was at this moment. His old 
love for Amy Reynolds was as water 
unto wine compared with the passion 
which he felt for the beautiful woman 
now before him. If he could win her! 
At that moment he was more than ready 
to pardon every unkind trick of Fortune, 
if only he might grasp this prize at last. 

There was not much encouragement 
for his hopes in Mrs. Traflford’s smile, if 
he had read that smile aright ; but to do 
so required a coolness of judgment which 
he was not then in a condition to exer- 
cise. 

“You are very kind,” she said, quiet- 
ly ; “ but I don’t like compliments — per- 
haps because I have had a surfeit of them 
— and I am callous to the spell of old sen- 
timent. Gardens, woodland glens, and 
the like haunts of flirtation, would prob- 
ably not lose their attraction if one could 
be sixteen forever; but, happily, time 
bears us away from that very foolish age, 
and we leave its tastes as well as its ab- 
surdities behind us.” 

“ Its absurdities, if you choose to call 
them so, were nearer wisdom than the 
cynicism which comes so readily to us 
now,” said he, earnestly. “ If you would 
believe and feel that as I do, something 
of the charm of that golden time might 
come back for us yet.” 

Looking full at him, she lifted her 
eyebrows with a slightly interrogative 
and half-mocking expression. 

“ Pardon me,” she said, “ but are you 
not taking a good deal for granted ? Have 
I implied in the remotest manner that the 


‘golden time,’ of which you speak so elo- 
quently has any charm for me? ” 

He was more than a little taken aback 
for an instant, but recovered himself 
readily. Evidently this woman, with 
her ten years of worldly training behind 
her, was not to be wooed, like a school- 
girl, with mere sentiment ; and, perceiv- 
ing this, he changed his tone instant- 

h- 

“Do not misunderstand me,” he said. 
“ I recognize as clearly as you do the gulf 
of change — change in outward events, 
yet most of all in ourselves — which sepa- 
rates us from that time. I remember its 
miseries as well as its happiness. But 
neither of us is likely to deny that 
there was happiness in it; and, despite 
all the years and the changes which have 
divided us, that happiness may be ours 
again — if you choose, Amy.” 

It was the first time he had ventured 
to call her by the old name once so com- 
mon to his lips; and, as he uttered it 
now, a flash came into her eyes, but she 
drooped her lids quickly over them, and 
after an instant she was able to control 
her voice sufficiently to reply : 

“ Pray explain yourself. How can 
the happiness of which you speak — and 
concerning the existence of which we will 
not argue — be ours again, if I choose ? ” 

“ Does not your own heart answer 
that question ? ” asked he, with genuine 
emotion in his face and voice. “ What 
did our happiness spring from but love — 
love which we felt and expressed in the 
face of every obstacle? It was a ro- 
mance then — bright, sweet, utterly hope- 
less — but it may, if you choose, be far 
better now. The future is in our own 
hands, Amy. Can we not grasp all of 
which Fate robbed us when it parted us 
ten years ago ? ” 

He attempted to take her hand, but 
she drew it away, and, lifting her eyes, 
looked at him. In the cold, steady scorn 
of that glance he read his answer. Her 
hour for triumph and retaliation had 
come, and she wa^ not likely to spare 


“SCORES ARE SETTLED BETWEEN USJ 


191 


the man who had once sacrificed her 
heart for his idle pleasure. 

“ Do you not think it is time for this 
farce to end, Mr. Marchmont ? ” she asked, 
in a tone so keen and trenchant that it 
cut like a whip. “ I have listened to you 
thus far, partly because you amused me, 
and partly because I was cfUrious to see 
how far your forgetfulness of the past — 
or your reckoning on my forgetting it — 
would lead you. My curiosity is entirely 
satisfied. You have made a great many 
mistakes in your life, I doubt not; but 
you have never made — you never can 
make— a greater than when you dreamed 
that I had so utterly lost sight of all I 
owe you, that you could venture to speak 
to me like this! ” 

Coldness vanished from her speech 
with the last words, and a flood of pas- 
sion shivered through them, while her 
dauntless eyes met his with a glow which 
no man could have been dull enough to 
misunderstand. 

The transformation was so sudden and 
so complete that his first feeling was one 
of intense amazement, and he gazed at 
her like one who is incredulous of the 
evidence of his own ears. 

Seeing this, she smiled — a haughty, 
contemptuous smile. 

“Do you understand now,” she said, 
“that scores are to be settled between us? 
If you had been wise, Mr. Marchmont, 
you would have chosen any other woman 
on earth than Amy Reynolds for the ob- 
ject of a fortune-hunter’s scheme ! ” 

These words seemed to restore him to 
himself — at least, they brought a dark- 
red flush to his face and a gleam into his 
eyes. Yet he did not lose control of him- 
self, for in an instant he grasped the 
thought that, if she only distrusted his 
sincerity all might yet be well. 

“ It is impO'Sible,” he said, “ that you, 
who know the world and the hearts of 
men so well, can believe that I am think- 
ing of your fortune. You must know — 
you must feel to the centre of your soul 
— that 1 love you with a most passionate j 
13 


devotion 1 It would be strange if I failed 
to do so, when you, mistress as you are of 
every fascination that can beguile, have 
exerted all those fascinations upon me.” 

“You are right,” she answered. “I 
have endeavored to ensnare your fancy ; 
and if I have succeeded — if you, indeed, feel 
for me anything approaching to a passion 
— it was only what I intended, to make 
my reprisal complete. In all your mem- 
ories of the past, have you forgotten the 
scene of our parting? /remember it as 
if it had occurred yesterday. I remember 
that, when you coolly told me that I had 
served to amuse you, and, the time for 
amusement being over, all was ended be- 
tween us, I warned you that, if ever any 
chance of life put it in my power to re- 
turn upon you the suffering and mortifi- 
cation you had so ruthlessly inflicted, I 
would do so remorselessly. That time 
has come. You, misled by your own folly 
and vanity, have placed the opportunity 
in my hand. You chose to seek me out; 
you would not heed my warnings. Now 
take the consequences ; now comprehend 
that I detest as deeply as I scorn you, and 
that there is not a beggar in the streets — 
nay, I will go further, there is not a felon 
in the prisons — whom I would not soon- 
er marry ! Now do you understand? ” 

It were needless to ask the question. 
If ever a man understood the full, bitter 
truth, Brian Marchmont understood it 
then. His face became more than pale ; 
it was fairly livid, as, with a conscious- 
ness like a revealing flash of lightning, 
he saw everything — saw how blindly he 
had fallen into this woman’s net, and how 
she had befooled and beguiled him, while 
Nelly Paget and Nelly Paget’s fortune 
passed beyond his reach. 

Seeing that he was absolutely incapa- 
ble of speech, Mrs. Trafford rose. Though 
she did not feel the faintest sensation of 
pity — for all the memories of the past had 
rushed upon her with overwhelming force 
— she was anxious to end a scene which 
could only become more distinctly un- 
pleasant with every succeeding moment. 


192 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“ It is not likely that we shall meet 
'again,” she said, in a tone cold as ice. 
“I have only tolerated your presence in 
order that I might pay the debt which I 
owed you ; and now scores are settled be- 
tween us forever.” 

“Not quite settled,” he interposed, 
rising also, and advancing abruptly tow- 
ard her. “ Believe me, Mrs. Trafford, 
the last act of the drama, whether you 
choose to consider it tragedy, comedy, or 
farce, is not played yet. To retaliate 
upon me for the fancied injury inflicted 
by a flirtation ten years ago — a flirtation 
which cost me the surrender of my most 
brilliant worldly prospects — you have not 
only inspired a passion that you meant to 
scorn and hopes you intended to disap- 
point, but you cannot deny that it is 
chiefly owing to you that Miss Paget has 
engaged herself to an unknown Bohe- 
mian.” 

“ I have no intention of denying it,” 
replied she, calmly. “I intended from 
the flrst to save her and disappoint you. 
I have accomplished both.” 

“For the present,” said he, with a 
calmness which equaled her own. “But 
did you ever hear that ‘he laughs best 
who laughs last'?’ Again I say, Mrs. 
Trafford, the last act has yet to be 
played ! ” 

She flung her head back proudly. 

“I understand what you mean to im- 
ply,” she said. “That you would gladly 
injure me if you could, I do not doubt ; 
but I defy you ! The last pang which it 
was in your power to inflict on me, you 
inflicted ten years ago in Edgerton. So 
long as we two live upon the earth, Brian 
Marchmqnt, it will never be in your pow- 
er to harm me again.” 

He smiled in a manner which would 
have caused a less brave woman to shud- 
der — a smile more signiflcant than any 
frown. 

“ You have made me your debtor to a 
very great degree,” he said, “and it re- 
mains to be seen whether there may not 
be yet another settlement of scores be- 


tween us! For the present, however, I 
accept your dismissal; when we meet 
again, Mrs. Trafford, it may be I who will 
laugh last.” 

These were the final words uttered 
between them. He left the room with a 
bow; and she, standing quite still in the 
middle of the floor asked herself if she 
were dreaming, or if, indeed, her long and 
bitter reckoning with Brian Marchmont 
was settled at last. 

CHAPTER Xiy. 

“ I WILL FIND THE WAT.” 

It would be vain to attempt to de- 
scribe the storm of emotion which raged 
in Marchmont’s breast when he went forth 
from Mrs. Trafford’s presence. Never in 
his life before — not even on the unforgot- 
ten night when Beatrix Waldron poured 
out her scorn upon him — had he been so 
humiliated, so utterly baffled, as now. 
That defeat had seemed to him intoler- 
able, but this was tenfold worse. To 
have been lured by any woman to such 
an end for such a purpose, would have 
proved bitter enough when the end came ; 
but it was doubly bitter to consider that 
she who had so mercilessly fooled and 
beguiled him was no other than the 
woman whom he had once esteemed of 
such slight importance that he had cast 
her out of his path without a thought. It 
appeared to him an outrage of Fate which 
had thus thrown him in her power ; and 
when he thought of the double blow 
which she had struck— of all that he 
had lost in losing Nelly Paget — he could 
only grind his teeth and utter irupotent 
curses. 

Impotent for the present; but, now 
as ever, there were powers of strong feel- 
ing and strong doing in this man’s nature, 
which only needed a touch to waken 
them. Unscrupulous at all times, with 
the incentives of mortifled pride and 


“I WILL FIND THE WAY.” 


193 


baffled ambition, he was ready to grasp 
any means by which revenge might be 
secured. 

N’evertheless, he did not close his eyes 
to the fact that it was difficult to see how 
he could hope to strike Mrs. Trafford. 
She had defied him to inflict another 
pang on her, and he knew that the defi- 
ance was more than mere bravado — that 
it rested on very solid grounds. All the 
advantage of position was hers, and one 
so well supported by wealth and social 
prestige could afford to set at naught the 
malice of a discarded suitor. He recog- 
nized the situation at a glance; but he 
said to himself, with an emphasis which 
had the force of an oath : 

“ I will find the way ! 

Absorbed in these thoughts, he did 
not observe where he was going, until, 
having walked mechanically for some 
distance, he found himself in Hyde Park, 
in the neighborhood of the Row, which 
at this hour was filled with equestrians. 

It was a very gay and animated scene, 
but he scarcely took in a feature of it as 
he slowly strolled along the footpath. 
The blooming young Amazons on their 
handsome horses did not win a glance 
from him, and his mind was as far as | 
possible away from them, when a blithe 
voice suddenly said : 

“How do you do, Mr. Marchmont? 
Are you rehearsing the part of Hamlet ? 
— or why is it that you so resolutely cut 
your friends ? ” 

He turned, and found himself con- 
fronted by Hebe on horseback — in other 
words, by Mariette Reynolds, who had 
pulled up her horse to address him. She 
was laughing, and the sunlight was glint- 
ing down upon her, brightening the sheen 
of her golden hair until it seemed literally 
woven of sunbeams, showing the exquisite 
lines of her figure, and playing over her 
lovely face, with its complexion of roses 
and snow. 

Altogether, so fair a picture was she 
— so radiant with youth and beauty and 
good spirits — that Marchmont was sud- 


denly conscious that Stamer Gresham 
was a very fortunate man. 

With this fortunate man and his sister 
— a handsome girl, of the substantial Eng- 
lish order — Mariette was riding, but she 
had begun to find their society a trifle 
dull when she saw Marchmont ; and, 
since he had twice allowed her to pass 
without noticing her, she acted on an 
impulse and reined up her horse, uttering 
the words recorded above. 

They were words which startled him 
by their unexpectedness; but he was 
carefully trained in self-control, and the 
habit of years did not desert him. He 
swung round, and lifted his hat with a 
smOe. 

“ Charmed to meet you. Miss Rey- 
nolds — and thanks for recalling me to a 
sense of what I was losing. I was pass- 
ing along with a feeling of ‘ What is He- 
cuba ’ — otherwise the Row — ‘ to me, or I 
to Hecuba?’ But I did not know that 
the fairest face in London was to be seen 
on it ! ” 

Not yet had compliments lost their 
savor to Mariette. The face of which he 
spoke brightened and blushed with pleas- 
ure under his gaze ; and at this moment 
an idea darted into Marchmont’s mind 
like a flash of inspiration. Here was his 
means of revenge — here was the channel 
i through which he might strike Mrs. Traf- 
ford a blow that would forever settle 
scores between them ! It was an idea of 
daring audacity, but he was a desperate 
man ready for desperate ventures. He 
could lose nothing, he might gain much ; 
and, on the chance, with the instinct of 
a gambler, he was willing to stake every- 
thing. 

It was the work of an instant to glance 
from Mariette to the commonplace young 
Briton by her side, and reckon the odds 
against success. That they were heavy, 
there could be no doubt — so heavy, that 
it seemed madness to dream of that which 
had occurred to him ; but he was abso- 
lutely reckless. Even if he failed, he 
would only be where he was now ; while 


194 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


success would mean so much, that the 
mere thought of it sent a thrill of hope 
and resolution through him. Fortune 
favors the daring, and he determined to 
dare all things. 

Taking advantage of Mariette’s pause. 
Captain and Miss Gresham were talking 
to some friends, so that he had a moment’s 
opportunity to speak unheard. 

“I have just seen your sister, and 
learned that I must congratulate you,” 
he said. “ It is the old story — 

‘ The smile that blest one lover’s heart 
Has broken many more.’ 

But those that are broken have no right 
to complain, I suppose. Besides, broken 
hearts are out of fashion.” 

“ Hearts of all kinds are,” said Mari- 
ette, gayly ; yet something in the glance 
of the dark eyes made her blush again. 
“ Who considers them nowadays? Were 
you thinking of anything so obsolete, 
as you sauntered along, like a tragedy- 
hero ? ” 

“Yes,” he answered, looking straight 
into the blue depths of her eyes with his 
most effective gaze ; “I was thinking of 
those obsolete things, and — it may be 
presumptuous of me, but finding you here 
at this moment is so strange — I should 
like to tell you of what I was thinking. 
I might bore you, however; so perhaps 
it is as well that I must say, instead, au 
revoiry 

“Were you thinking of me.?” she 
asked, quickly, curiosity rising in her 
breast. “ I can’t imagine that possible.” 

“ Can you not? ” with a smile. “ Then 
have faith in the impossible. I was think- 
ing a great deal which I should seriously 
like to tell you, hut which we lack time 
and opportunity to discuss now. Do you 
feel interest enough in it to care to make 
an opportunity to hear it ? ” 

“ What need is there to make an 
opportunity ? ” asked she, with some sur- 
prise. 

“ Simply this need,” answered he, 
with growing earnestness, as he felt the 


desperate nature of the game he was at- 
tempting to play, “that I desire to see 
you — alone, and without interruption. 
This, as you know, is impossible under 
any ordinary circumstances of meeting. 
Therefore, occupying almost the position 
of a grandfather to you — certainly having 
known you when you were no higher 
than this stick — I feel tempted to pro- 
pose an extraordinary mode of meet- 
ing.” 

As was natural, his manner puzzled 
Mariette exceedingly, and stimulated her 
interest. She was not only curious, but 
the volatile elements in her nature caught 
at anything which promised excitement 
out of the ordinary way. 

“I can appreciate the grandfatherly 
claim,” she said, with mischievous grav- 
ity, “ and I should like to hear the mys- 
terious subject of your thoughts. Pray 
let me know what extraordinary mode 
of meeting you propose ? ” 

“ One not at all extraordinary save in 
the fact of being removed from your usu- 
al surroundings,” he replied, eagerly — so 
eagerly that the girl’s interest waxed 
greater. “Did I not hear you say, the 
other day, that you should like to spend 
some one of these beautiful afternoons 
loitering in Kensington Gardens ? Unless 
Captain Gresham claims all your time, 
will you not give me the pleasure of meet- 
ing you there this afternoon ? ” 

“Meeting me?” said she, interroga- 
tively. 

“Yes,” he answered. “I cannot ex- 
plain now, but I should prefer that no 
one knew of the meeting. Give me a 
chance — only a chance ! ” he pleaded. “ I 
have something to tell you which may be 
of great — of the greatest importance. 
Will you come ? I promise this, at least : 
you will not regret it.” 

Mariette hesitated, uncertain what to 
say or do. Marchmont’s request, and, 
still more, Marchmont’s manner, was so 
singular, that she felt more curious than 
can be readily expressed. After all, what 
objection was there to the plan he pro- 


“I WILL FIND THE WAY!” 


195 


posed ? To meet an old friend — a friend 
of her childhood — in the pleasant shades 
of Kensington Gardens, and loiter away 
an hour or two, surely neither sister nor 
lover could find any wrong in that ? Just 
as she reached this conclusion. Captain 
Gresham turned and asked if she was 
ready to ride on. 

“Quite ready,” she replied. Then 
she turned to Marchmont and said: 
“What hour shall we appoint? Five? 
Remember, 1 expect something tery in- 
teresting to repay me for sacrificing a 
kettle drum to which I am engaged to 
accompany Amy.” 

She bowed, smiled, and rode away, in 
her youth and grace, by the side of the 
man to whom she was engaged; while 
the man whom she had left standing by 
the rails looked after her and said to him- 
self: “It is a desperate cast; but some- 
times the desperate win.” 

Cleverly eluding all questions from 
her lover about the appointment she had 
made, Mariette finished her ride and 
went home. The more she thought of 
Marchmont, his singular manner and sin- 
gular request, the more her curiosity was 
piqued, and, instead of regretting the ap- 
pointment, she resolved to keep it. 

“ What can he have to tell me ? ” she 
thought. “ It is very odd ! Perhaps he 
has heard some dreadful story about Sta- 
mer ; but he would be likely to go to Amy 
with that. Ah, I have it! He must 
want me to exert my influence with Amy 
in his behalf. If he only knew it. Love’s 
labor is lost there. I think I’ll tell him 
so, and then, perhaps, I shall draw out 
the history of the old aflfair, which Amy 
will never mention. I should like to hear 
it, for I have not forgotten how he used 
to come ‘to hear her sing,’ and how she 
met him in the woods. Such stolen ro- 
mance must be very sweet — and he would 
make a charming lover ! What eyes — ah, 
what eyes he has ! And then, he looks 
like a man with a story. Poor Stamer 
has no such appearance, and I must con- 
fess that he is very commonplace and un- 


interesting. I do not like Englishmen; 
there is no doubt of that. They do not 
know how to talk, and they are very 
heavy after one has known them a 
while.” 

With this decision — rather foreign, it 
would seem, to the subject of her medita- 
tion — Miss Reynolds went down to lunch- 
eon, where her attention was suflSciently 
disengaged to notice that Mrs. Trafford 
looked rather pale. 

“ Have you another headache, Amy ? ” 
she asked. “ What a pity you did not go 
to ride with us ! The Row was delight- 
ful. You were not condemned to soli- 
tude, however, for I met Mr. Marchmont, 
and he said he had just left you.” 

A change, slight but significant, came 
over Mrs. Traflford’s face at the mention 
of Marchmont’s name; but it did not oc- 
cur to her to break through the reticence 
which she had hitherto observed regard- 
ing him. 

“Yes, he was here,” she answered; 
and then she changed the subject so 
quickly that Mariette’s suspicions were 
roused. 

“Something out of the ordinary way 
has occurred between them,” she said to 
herself. “ Perhaps I shall hear from him 
what it was. Since Amy does not choose 
to be frank with me, I shall not be frank 
with her.” Then she said : “ You’ll ex- 
cuse my going with you to Mrs. St. John’s 
kettle-drum — will you not? Like your- 
self, I am rather tired of festivities — at 
least of that order of festivities.” 

“ I will excuse you very readily,” Mrs. 
Trafiford answered, with a smile. “I 
don’t wonder you are tired, and, after 
resting this afternoon, you will be fresh- 
er for the balls at which we are due to- 
night.” 

So Mariette carried her point without 
difficulty; and after Mrs. Trafiford had 
departed to Mrs. St. John’s kettle-drum, 
she put on a quiet but most becoming 
walking-costume, and set forth to keep 
her appointment. 


196 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


An hour later a lady and gentleman 
might have been seen pacing slowly along 
one of the velvet-turfed, leaf-canopied al- 
leys of Kensington Gardens, talking with 
that air of thorough preoccupation which 
is very full of significance to lookers-on. 
They were no doubt taken for a pair of 
lovers by all who observed them, and, had 
they been so, they could have found no 
fitter place to linger than this “lovely 
lawn of Kensington.” 

It was looking its loveliest just now, 
in the soft beauty of the June afternoon 
— long, slanting, golden light lying on 
emerald sward, and deep shadows lying 
under splendid trees. Mariette had ex- 
claimed enthusiastically over its beauty 
when she entered ; but Nature always 
played a very subordinate part with her, 
and it was particularly subordinate now, 
because she was deeply interested in the 
story which Marchmont had brought her 
there to hear. 

It was a very effective story, effective- 
ly told — the story of his own life viewed 
through the medium of his own imagina- 
tion. 

“ You must pardon me if I am egotis- 
tical,” he said, when beginning. “ It is a 
necessary preface to what I shall tell you 
afterward, that I should tell you first the 
story of my life. I will endeavor not to 
be tedious, and I shall certainly be truth- 
ful.” 

“Don’t trouble yourself with any 
fears of tediousness,” Mariette had an- 
swered, lightly; “I am always fond of 
autobiography, and yours will be particu- 
larly interesting, because I hardly fancy I 
am wrong in thinking it is connected in 
certain passages with my childish recol- 
lections of persons and events.” 

“ I know what you mean,” he replied, 
“but you have probably heard all that 
from Mrs. Traffbrd, so I will not bore you 
by repeating — ” 

“I have never heard anything from 
Amy,” she interrupted, eagerly, fearful 
that her curiosity might be ungratified at 
last, and, in her ignorance, giving him 


exactly the assurance he wanted. “ I re- 
member, of course, how intimate you and 
Amy were, and I know you must have 
been in love with each other ; but that is 
all I know.” 

“You shall know all that I can tell 
you,” he said, with an apparent impulse 
of candor ; and he plunged at once into 
the recital. 

It has already been said that it was 
very effectively made. By a few graphic 
words he described his position when he 
first appeared in Edgerton, his ambitious 
hopes of entering public life, and his want 
of the fortune requisite for such a career. 
Under these circumstances, that arrange- 
ment which the French call mariage de 
convenance seemed to him the most de- 
sirable he could make, and therefore he 
went to Edgerton as Beatrix Waldron’s 
suitor. But he had hardly set himself 
seriously at work to win the heiress’s 
hand, when he met lovely, penniless Amy 
Reynolds, and feU hopelessly in love. 

Then, what a pure, idyllic romance it 
was which followed ! Had Mrs. Trafford 
heard his description of it, she might have 
been convinced that no truer-hearted 
lover was ever driven by the force of 
circumstances to resign the girl he loved. 

Then came a brief sketch of the ten 
years’ interval — “ full to the brim as re- 
garded worldly success, absolutely empty 
as regarded the heart,” he said, patheti- 
cally. And finally he reached the present 
time. 

It required all his most delicate di- 
plomacy to deal with it, but he acquitted 
himself admirably. It is true that Mari- 
ette felt a little bewildered as she listened, 
a little uncertain how to reconcile her 
own observation with these frank state- 
ments ; but, on the whole, his statements 
carried the day. 

This was scarcely to be wondered at ; 
everything seconded them so well ! Some 
special pleaders can color all things with 
the hues of their own eloquence — can 
make black appear white and white seem 
black ; and to this class Marchmont be- 


“I WILL FIND THE WAY! 


197 


longed. Few girls in Mariette’s position 
eoiild have been insensible to confidences 
uttered in such a thrilling voice, second- 
ed by such a poetically-handsome face, 
and with every romantic infiuence of 
time and place in their favor. What 
soft leaf -shadows flickered over them as 
the breeze at intervals stirred the boughs 
overhead! How the level yellow sun- 
beams lighted up the foliage, and streaked 
the dark trunks of the trees with gold ! 

And with all these influences around 
— influences very potent on the impres- 
sionable heart of eighteen — what was it 
that she heard? Why, simply this : that 
when Marchmont saw Mrs. Trafford 
again, he strove to renew the broken links I 
of old romance, and failed utterly. 

“ I found that the girl I loved had 
passed away forever,” he said, “ and left 
in her place a brilliant, heartless woman 
of the world. The nearer I came to her, 
the more I felt that my ideal had fled for- 
ever. Then, heart-sick and disappointed, 

I turned away, and, lo ! the ideal, which 
I had fancied lost, stood before me — real- 
ized a hundred-fold ! With all the tender 
grace of youth, all the wayward charm 
of a nature exquisitely fresh and fair, I 
found it — in you, Mariette ! ” 

“ In me ! ” repeated Mariette, with a 
start and a blush. “You surely are jest- 
ing ! ” 

“ Is it likely that I would jest on such 
a subject ? ” he asked, reproachfully. 

“ Believe me, I am as earnest as a man 
-can be — how earnest, indeed, I would not 
make you comprehend, if I could. And 
do not mistake me : though I found my 
ideal, it did not for a moment occur to 
me to think of winning it. I knew that 
such bright youth as yours should mate 
with bright youth — not with a life like 
mine, passing out of youth. I could love 
— nay, I do love — with a passion far deep- 
er and stronger than that of any boy. 
But you would never have heard of the 
existence of this passion, if I had not felt 
that it gave me the right to utter a warn- 
ing, when I saw you about to sacrifice 


yourself on the altar of a worldly mar- 
riage. Mariette” — he took her hand as 
he spoke — “tell me, do you imagine 
yourself in love with the commonplace 
young Englishman whom you have 
pledged yourself to marry ? ” 

“I — really, I don’t know why you 
should doubt it,” Mariette managed to 
answer with moderate self-possession. 
“He is very — nice.” 

“Just that,” her companion replied, 
coolly. “Very nice, undoubtedly, and 
nothing more. While you — Mariette, 
is it possible you have no .idea what you 
are? ” 

“I think I know pretty well,” Mari- 
I ette murmured. “ Modesty is not one of 
my failings. And I like Captain Gresham 
very much. You must not think that I 
do not.” 

“Do you love him? ” — and the grasp 
grew warmer on her hand. “Answer 
me that. If you can truly say that you 
do — Well, I shall try to believe you, 
and be satisfied.” 

But Mariette could not say it. Was 
it the clasp on her hand, or the earnest 
gaze of the dark eyes, which rendered 
her speechless — or was it some new, 
strange feeling in her own breast? What- 
ever it was, her head drooped a little, 
and, for answer, warm blushes came, 
mantling into her fair cheeks. 

“ I see ! ” said Marchmont, after a 
minute’s pause, and he drew a deep breath 
as of one relieved from a great dread. 
“ You do not love him, and you must for- 
give me if I implore you not to sacrifice 
your life, your heart, your soul, in the 
bondage of such a marriage. Surely 
there is no need for it ; surely your sis- 
ter—” 

“My sister,” said Mariette, with a 
faint, tremulous laugh, “has grown very 
sentimental of late, and declares that she 
wishes me only to marry the man I — 
love.” 

“ She has learned what loveless mar- 
riage is, in her own experience, and she 
would save you from it. Why, then, do 


198 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


you not heed her ? Has your heart not 
yet waked ? But it will wake some day, 
and avenge the wrong you have done it, 
in a manner of which you could not now 
even dream.” 

She looked at him with a smile which 
he did not altogether understand. In 
truth, it had no meaning beyond the fact 
that she was enjoying this excitement — 
with its piquant taste of stolen fruit — far 
more than Stamer Gresham’s rather mo- 
notonous love-making. The man by her 
side, with his musical voice and passion- 
ate eyes, was .a lover of another stamp 
altogether, and certainly more attractive. 
She did not comprehend him ; she had 
an instinct which held her back from 
wholly trusting him ; yet she felt the 
power of his fascination more and more 
with every moment. If she had been 
wise, she would have left him at once ; 
but, under temptation, few are wise. 
There was no harm in lingering a little 
longer in the mellow sunshine, beneath 
the spreading trees — no harm in drinking ' 
a little deeper of this sweet draught of ‘ 
passionate, romantic devotion. He had 
not asked for anything. Where was the 
harm of merely listening? 


CHAPTEK XV. 

THE BLOW FALLS. 

“ A LADY wants to see you, Mr. Dins- 
more — a lady in her carriage. Shall I 
ask her to walk up ? ” 

So spoke a servant of rather grimy 
aspect, appearing at the door of Hugh 
Dinsmore’s studio, where the latter was 
hard at work, painting as if his life de- 
pended on every stroke. He looked 
round in surprise. 

“A lady! — to see me! What the 
deuce— Oh ! you have her card ! ” 

He took the card, and his surprise 
was not lessened when he found Mrs. 
Trafford’s name thereon. He did not say 
anything, but he changed color. Putting 


his palette out of his hand, and motion- 
ing the servant aside, he himself went to 
the door. There was no mistake. It was 
Mrs. Trafford, who, when he approached 
the carriage in which she sat, held out 
her hand to him. 

“ Will you pardon me for taking you 
by surprise like this ? ” she asked. “ But 
I really have a reason for it. May I gO' 
up to your studio ? ” 

“ Of course you may — of course, I am 
delighted to see you ! ” he answered, of- 
fering his arm to descend. “You find me 
in working-gear altogether,” he added, 
with an apologetic glance at his painting- 
coat, “but you will, no doubt, excuse 
that.” 

“Excuse it! I should think so, in- 
deed ! ” she answered, as they went up 
to the studio. “I only hope you will 
excuse me^ when I tell you why I have 
intruded on your work.” 

“Surely you must know that you da 
not intrude upon me,” he said with a 
gravity more reassuring than any gal- 
lantry could have been. “ I shall be sin- 
cerely glad if it is in my power to serve 
you in any way. Let me give you a seat 
by the window,” he went on, as they en- 
tered the studio. “You can see the river 
from there, and it is better worth looking 
at than my unfinished work.” 

“Your unfinished work interests me 
more than a hundred rivers could,” she 
answered. “ May I see what you are 
doing ? ” 

Without waiting for his answer, she 
walked directly up to the large easel 
where the canvas rested on which he 
had been painting. 

It was the scene already described 
from the “ Rhyme of the Duchess May ; ”' 
and, as Mrs. Tratford looked at it, she saw 
at once that the face of the duchess had 
been painted — a marvelously beautiful 
face, imploring, yet calm, despite the 
agony of the attitude ; but it was fully a 
minute before she realized that it was 
neither more nor less than a likeness of 
her own face. 


THE BLOW FALLS. 


199 


Hugh, who was watching her curious- 
ly, saw that she recognized it from the 
flush that suddenly covered her cheek 
and brow. Without giving herself time 
to think, she turned toward him quickly. 

“ I thought you intended to take Mari- 
ette for your model ? ” she said. 

“I thought so, too,” he answered; 
“but when I had painted her face — at 
least its outline — I found that, however 
lovely it might be, it was not the face of 
the Duchess May. Then your face began 
to haunt me in connection with the pict- 
ure, until, at last, the only escape from 
the fascination was to paint it ; and you 
see the result.” 

“I see that you have succeeded in 
drawing my features, yet elevating them 
to a higher beauty than they possess, by 
means of an expression totally foreign to 
them,” she said. “ Does the result satisfy 
you ? ” 

“Perfectly!” 

“.And you could paint this without 
any sittings ? ” 

“ Do you think I need any sittings to 
paint your face?” he asked, with a slight 
smile. “ Why, there is not a line of it 
that I do not know by heart — a fact not 
very remarkable, when you consider that 
you were once my only sitter, and that I 
taxed your patience constantly.” 

“Don’t do yourself injustice,” said 
she. “ My recollection is, that you were 
considerate in that as in everything else. 
1 am glad that my face has served you 
once again” — turning from the picture. 
“I will tell you why I have come to 
trouble you. It is not with regard to 
myself, but with regard to Mariette.” 

She looked at him keenly as she ut- 
tered the last words; but she failed to 
see that the expression of concern on his 
face deepened at all. 

“ Anything that I can do for you, or 
for Mariette, I will do most willingly,” 
he answered. “Pray tell me, without 
hesitation, what you desire.” 

“ What I desire is — well, I suppose it 
is advice,” she said, with a slight, irreso- 


lute motion of her hands. “At least, it 
is nothing more deflnite. You know that 
Mariette is engaged to Captain Gresham ? 
— yes, of course you know it. Tell me — 
pray, tell me frankly — what you think of 
the engagement.” 

He was surprised, and his face showed 
this surprise very plainly. 

“ Pardon me,” he said, “ but you have 
surely forgotten how little I can know 
of the matter. It is a brilliant match, I 
presume. I believe that Captain Gresham 
is the eldest son of a baronet. I know 
no more of him than that.” 

“ I am not talking of him,” said Mrs. 
Trafford, “ but of Mariette. I was not, 
at the first, pleased with the idea of the 
engagement. I did not think that she 
cared enough for the man whom she 
thought of marrying; but, as time goes 
on, I am still less pleased or satisfied. I 
am a close observer, and Mariette’s man- 
ner, of late, has made me vaguely un- 
easy — ” 

She broke off abruptly, and walked to 
the window, her silken skirts trailing softly 
over the studio-floor, while Hugh watched 
her, with the surprise deepening on his 
face. In such a matter as this, why 
should she come to Mm ? 

After a moment’s pause, she went on 
without turning round — went on in a 
hurried voice: 

“ I may be right, or I may be wrong, 
in saying this to you — I cannot tell. But 
Mariette’s manner gives me the impres- 
sion that she is in love — and not with 
Captain Gresham.” 

“With whom, then?” asked Hugh, 
now completely overmastered by aston- 
ishment. 

Mrs. Trafford turned, and, with her 
clear, brilliant eyes, looked full at 
him. 

“Do not you know?” she asked, in 
reply. “I thought — I hoped — 0 Hugh, 
if I have blundered, pardon me ! — but do 
not yon care for her ? ” 

“ I! ” For a moment Hugh could say 
no more than that; then, having grasped 


200 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


her meaning, he rallied his self-possession, 
and answered : “ I care for her, most un- 
doubtedly, as an old friend who knew 
and loved her in her babyhood ; but not 
as a lover, Mrs. Trafford — if that is what 
you mean.” 

“Are you sure?” she said, drawing 
nearer to him, and involuntarily clasping 
her hands. “ Hugh, don't sutler any false 
pride to ruin your happiness and hers ! I 
have suspected from the first that you 
loved her ; and if you do — ” 

“You are making a great mistake, 
Mrs. Trafford ! ” Hugh interposed, grave- 
ly. “Your penetration has misled in 
some unaccountable manner. The affec- 
tion which I feel for Mariette now, is 
exactly the same which I felt for her 
when she was five years old. The idea 
of loving my old playmate as a woman 
has never entered my imagination — nor 
can it now do so. I acknowledge her 
loveliness, and I appreciate her charms; 
but my feeling toward her stops there. 
Why should you fear that I am deceiving 
you?” he added, as she still looked at 
him doubtfully. “Do you think” — and 
here his eyes kindled — “ that, if I loved 
her, I would stand by and not make an 
effort to win her? Do you fancy that I 
should let a duke’s son claim her, if she 
loved me J ” 

' Her eyes drooped under the flash of 
his, and she turned her face away. 

“How could I tell? ” she murmured. 

“ I thought that perhaps my wealth might 
stand between, and that, if you could 
know how happy I should be if I could | 
benefit you, Hugh — ” | 

“ Stop ! ” he said, and something in I 
his voice — a thrill of passion steadily con- 
trolled — made her quiver. “ Don’t let us 
enter upon an utterly useless discussion ; 
don’t tempt me to tell you how little I 
could ever think of benefiting by your 
wealth. The past has been sealed to us 
so far, Mrs. Trafford ; let it remain sealed 
to the end.” 

“ Oh, how cruel, how hard, how un- 
forgiving, you are ! ” she cried. “ What 


have I ever done to you, that you should 
treat me so ? ” 

“ How am I treating you ? ” he asked, 
regaining outward calmness. “ I have 
only assured you that I am not, and never 
can be, your sister’s lover. That assur- 
ance certainly ought to be a relief to 
you, since she is engaged to another 
man? ” 

“ Instead of being a relief, it is a dis- 
appointment,” she said, slowly. “ I can- 
not help fearing for her future life, if she 
marries a man whom she does not sin- 
cerely love ; and I hoped that she might 
be saved from such a fate by you.” 

Surely, if “ woman’s at best a contra- 
diction still,” man is not anything very 
different ; for, at these words, Dinsmore’s 
brow clouded, and his resolute lips set 
themselves a little more resolutely for an 
instant, before he answered : 

“You mean kindly, no doubt, Mrs. 
Trafford ; but I must repeat again, that 
you have made a great mistake. I wish 
that I could help you to unravel the mys- 
tery — if mystery it be — of Mariette’s 
choice ; but, unfortunately, I am utterly 
unable to do so.” 

“ I may be mistaken altogether,” she 
said. “ I do not know ; I cannot tell. 
Having made one great mistake, I have 
lost confidence in my judgment.” 

There was a minute’s silence. The 
afternoon sunshine streamed into the 
studio, throwing a glory round Mrs. Traf- 
ford’s erect, stately figure, brightening 
the shining masses of her hair, and mak- 
ing a picture on which Hugh’s artist-eye 
dwelt with an admiration beyond his con- 
trol. If he could but fix it on his can- 
vas, to live forever! That was what he 
thought, but what he did not say. On 
the contrary, when he spoke, his words 
were very different — words which he felt 
actuated by some prophetic instinct to 
utter : 

“It may seem an odd thing to say, 
but, if any emergency should arise, in 
which I could be of use, pray promise to 
call on me. Remember that I am your 


THE BLOW FALLS. 


201 


oldest friend, and think of me as you 
would think of your brother.” 

“You are very kind,” she said; “but 
it is not easy to see what emergency 
could arise, or how you could be of use if 
it did arise. Pray, forget my blunder as 
soon as you can,” she added, with a faint 
smile. “ I shall not repeat it. • And now 
I will not trespass on your time any 
longer.” 

He did not attempt to detain her, but 
when he placed her in her carrriage he 
said again, earnestly, “Promise me that 
you will call on me ! ” And she an- 
swered, almost despite herself: 

“ I promise — if there is need.” 

When that promise was uttered, nei- 
ther he who asked, nor she who gave, 
had any idea how soon the need for 
claiming it would arise. On the second 
day after this visit, Dinsmore received 
the following note : 

“Dear Hugh: Pray come to me at 
once ! Something terrible has happened 
— something so terrible, that I cannot 
write of it ! 

“Yours, A. Teaffoed.” 

Surprise and consternation were 
equally balanced in Hugh’s mind when he 
read this. Something terrible — some- 
thing so terrible that she could not write 
of it ! What on earth had occurred ? 
All manner of doubts and fears took pos- 
session of him. He called a cab, prom- 
ised the driver a double fare to take him 
as quickly as possible to Mrs. Trafford’s 
house, and, when he arrived there, was 
ushered without delay into that lady’s 
presence. 

She came to meet him, so pale, so 
altered from the blooming beauty of only 
two days before, that he might have fan- 
cied she had just arisen from a severe 
attack of illness. 

But the change in her manner was 
even greater than the change in her face. 
She held out her hand to him, and said, 
like one who speaks mechanically : 

“ It is good of you to come ; but I 


thought, after sending, that it was useless 
to trouble you, for there is nothing to be 
done.” 

. “Let me judge of that,” he said, 
eagerly. “ Tell me what has happened 
— what is the matter? ” 

“Have you not heard?” she asked. 
“Ah, I forgot! I did not tell you — and 
Heaven* help me!” The words came 
through her lips with an absolute gasp. 
“ How can I tell you ! ” 

“ Does it concern Mariette ? ” he 
asked ; for his mind had at once recurred 
to their conversation of two days be- 
fore. 

“Yes, it concerns Mariette,” she an- 
swered ; and then she burst into tears. 

Poor Hugh felt as helpless and dis- 
tressed as a man of his order usually feels 
in presence of a woman’s tears — especial- 
ly the tears of such genuine, passionate 
grief as this. He was sorely perplexed. 
He felt that the trouble must indeed be 
of a very serious nature; but he was 
more and more puzzled to imagine what 
it could be. Knowing that the greatest 
kindness he could show Mrs. Tratford 
was to give her time to recover herself, 
he placed her gently in the chair from 
which she had risen at his entrance, and 
turned away. 

In doing so, he struck a small table 
near by, and almost upset it. As he 
caught it, a letter fell to the ground, and, 
when he stooped for it, Mrs. Trafford 
commanded her voice suflSciently to say : 

“ Read it.” 

He needed no second invitation, but, 
walking to one of the windows, he opened 
and read the letter, which he saw at a 
glance was signed with Mariette’s name. 

“My dear Amy: You have, of late, 
laid so much stress upon your desire that 
I should marry the man I love, that I am 
sure you will be glad to learn that I have 
decided to do so. Will you be surprised 
to hear that this man is your old friend 
Mr. Marchmont? -I am afraid you will 
not be pleased, and, to avoid anything 
disagreeable — for Mr. Marchmont and 
myself both dislike disagreeable things 


202 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


extremely — Ave have deckled to go over 
to the Contineot to be married. I will 
write full particulars in a few days, and 
give you our address. Won’t you join 
us when the season ends, and you have 
quite disposed of all your admirers ? Trou- 
ville, for a while, would be pleasant ; but 
we can discuss all this at length after the 
ceremony. I inclose a letter for Captain 
Gresham. Pray make my excuses as 
gracefully as you can. The fact is, that 
he is so heavy he tires me to death. But 
you need not mention this. 

“Adieu, dear! It shall not be long 
before you hear again from your most 
affectionate 

“ Maeiette.” 

That was all. Not another line, not 
another word. Hugh stood for a minute 
as if stunned ; then he crushed the letter 
forcibly together in his hand, as he ut- 
tered one passionate word — 

“ Ingrate ! ” 

“ I do not think of — I do not care for 
that / ” said Mrs. Trafford. “ But think of 
the wretchedness which is before her ! Do 
you understand that this is that villain’s 
mode of striking me ? When we had 
our final explanation — when he dared to 
speak to me of love, and I laughed in his 
face — he told me that scores were not 
settled between us yet ; and I — blind fool 
that I was! — defied him to injure me 
again. This is his answer. O Hugh ! 
Hugh ! is there no way to save her, even 
yet? ” 

“Stop a moment — let me think,” said 
Hugh. “I can hardly realize it. If you 
feared anything like this, why did you 
not tell me of it two days ago ? ” 

“Fear anything like this! Why, I 
never dreamed of it ! How could I ? They 
had never met, to my knowledge, since 
last they met in this house. I never 
thought of him ; I had no reason to do 
so. But I thought of you^ because I 
could not connect the change in Mariette 
with any one else. After leaving you, I 
believed that I had been wholly mistaken 
until this morning. She left the house 
before I rose ; and several hours later, 
when I began to feel anxious, her maid 
brought me this letter, which she pro- 


fessed to have just found. Well ! ” — an- 
other long, gasping breath — “ I did 'not 
faint. I believe one never does when 
one feels most. But the blow crushed 
me — as he meant that it should! My 
whole heart has been bound up in her. 
I could not tell you, if I would, all that I 
have hoped and planned: how I meant 
that her youth should be as bright and 
happy as mine was not, and that love 
should be the blessing — not the curse — 
of her life. And now she is the tool by 
which that man takes his revenge on me ! 
O Hugh, can I do nothing — nothing to 
save her? ” 

As she laid her hand on his arm, and, 
in the intensity of her appeal, lifted her 
pallid face toward his, Hugh’s heart, al- 
ways easily touched by sufitering of any 
kind, melted into tenderness, such as he 
had never thought to feel for her again. 
All his barriers of pride and reserve were 

I suddenly broken down. He compre- 
hended that, beneath the worldly exterior 
which he had so unsparingly condemned, 
the power of devoted, unselfish love re- 
mained ; and, for the first time since their 
renewal of intercourse, he looked at her 
and listened to her without being haunted 
by the thought that what he saw was act- 
ing — not reality. 

“ I would do anything to save her — 
for your sake,” he said. “Honestly, I 
have lost all desire to make such an effort 

I 

I for her own ; but that does not matter. 
The question is. Can she be saved ? ” 

“ It is a question I cannot answer,” 
Mrs. Trafford said. “ I seem to have lost 
all power of thinking coolly ; but— she is 
under age, you know.” 

“ Ah ! ” he said, quickly. “ That 
would be your best hope, if it were only 
possible to meet them before the mar- 
riage takes place. Have you the faintest 
idea where they have gone? She speaks 
indefinitely of the Continent.” 

“ I have not the least idea ; but I fan- 
cy, from her allusion to Trouville that 
they have gone to Paris.” 

“ Yes,” he said, reflectively, “ to Paris, 


“ CHECKMATED— BY FATE.' 


203 


most probably ; but I may be able to dis- 
cover something with regard to their 
destination by making inquiries at the 
Langham Hotel. Marchmont may have 
dropped some allusion — ” 

“ Pray do not let this be known ! ” she 
pleaded, eagerly. “I shrink — oh! you 
cannot imagine how I shrink — from the 
thought of its being canvassed I ” 

“You may trust me to say nothing 
that will raise even a suspicion,” he said, 
gently. “ All that I mean to do is to 
learn where they have gone. There 
seems hardly a chance of your gaining 
anything by following; but if any acci- 
dent should detain them — if the marriage 
should be delayed by any technicality such 
as might arise — you would be in time to 
interfere. There is a shadow of hope — 
no more. Are you willing to act on 
that?” 

“How can you ask me?” she said, 
with a feverish color rising into her face. 
“ I would act on the shadow of a shadow ! 
If you say so, I will start for Paris in half 
an hour.” 

“ I donH say so. I must have some 
certainty about their destination before 
you can think of starting. I will go at 
once to the Langham Hotel ; and do you, 
meanwhile, prepare for a journey. Take 
care of your strength, for you may need 
it, and keep courage. All is not lost 
w'hile the faintest hope remains.” 

“ How glad I am that I sent for you ! ” 
she said. “How much good you have 
done me! I was despairing when you 
came, and now I feel a gleam of hope. 
O Hugh ! if I can only save her ! ” 

“And baffle him! ” said Hugh, with a 
flash like unsheathed steel in his eyes. 
“God grant we may do both! Now 
there is no more time to talk. We 
must act! Prepare for your journey, 
while I go and make an effort to find the 
right track.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 
“checkmated — BY FATE.” 

It seemed to Dinsmore a stroke of 
luck that, on the pavement in front of 
the Langham Hotel, he chanced to meet 
Reade, who had just left Nelly Paget, 
and was therefore able to give him all 
the information he was likely to obtain 
with regard to Marchmont. The news of 
Mariette’s elopement had not, of course, 
reached the Pagets; but they had ex- 
pressed considerable surprise at March- 
mont’s return to the Continent, since he 
had avowedly left it with the intention 
of accompanying them to America. 

“I don’t think they are grieved by 
his change of purpose,” Reade added ; 
“ but it seems odd. Nelly has just sug- 
gested that perhaps the beautiful widow 
is at the bottom of it.” 

“At the bottom of it, in a certain 
sense, she undoubtedly is ! ” said Dins- 
more, grimly. “ Now, can you tell me 
— I have a special reason for asking — 
whether the fellow gave any intimation 
of where he was going first? ” 

Reade looked a little surprised, but 
was too well-bred to express the senti- 
ment. 

“ I think he was going first to Paris,” 
he answered. “At least, I heard Mrs. 
Paget say that he mentioned something 
of the kind, or something which implied 
an intention of the kind.” 

“You are sure of it? ” 

“ Sure that he said so ? Yes, perfectly 
sure.” 

“ That is all I want. Thank you, and 
good-morning. At another time I’ll ex- 
plain.” 

He hailed a cab as he spoke, sprang 
in, and drove off, before Reade could 
utter a word. The latter gazed after the 
vanishing vehicle for a moment in mute 
astonishment ; then he turned away, and, 
with a low whistle, said to himself : 

“There’s something mysterious here! 


204 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


I am afraid that, despite all his protesta- 
tions, Dinsmore has fallen into the toils 
of the enchanting Mrs. Trafford. But 
what has he to do with Marchmont? I 
must go and see if Nelly can throw any 
light on the affair.” 

While he promptly carried this reso- 
lution into execution, Dinsmore returned 
to Mrs. Trafford and told her what he 
had learned ; adding that, in his opinion, 
it would be well to go over to Paris, even 
though she should gain nothing by doing 
so. “You will have made an effort which 
will set your mind at rest,” he said. 

“ Oh, yes — yes ! ” she answered. 
“Anything is better than idly to stay 
here. Pardon me if I ask your advice 
on one more subject: What shall I do 
about the letter to Captain Gresham? ” 

“Keep it,” he answered, promptly. 
“Don’t let the story be known sooner 
than you can help. It is a forlorn hope, ! 
but, if we can reach her in time, we may | 
save her.” | 

“We cannot save her from a scandal : | 
that must be, in any event.” I 

“It shall not be!” said Hugh; and ! 
again the steel-like flash came into his j 
eyes. “ There are ways of making that j 
dastard hold his tongue — and no one else j 
knows of the elopement. Control your- | 
self ; tell the servants that you are called 
away on business; and do not take a 
maid with you.” 

Even in the midst of her distress, Mrs. 
Trafford looked a little dismayed at this. 

“ I have never made a journey alone,” 
she said; “but if you think it neces- 
sary — ” 

“ Alone ! ” he repeated. “ Surely, you 
know that I am going with you? ” 

Tears sprang quickly into the eyes 
which she lifted to his. 

“How kind you are! ” she said, in a 
low voice. “I do not know how to 
thank you ! ” 

“.You must not think of thanking 
me,” he said. “ Be ready to start in 
half an hour — that is all.” 

It seemed to Amy Trafford like a 


dream, when, an hour later, she found 
herself in a railway - carriage rushing 
toward Dover, with Hugh for a compan- 
ion. What a strange turn of events was 
this, which had brought them together 
again in their old friendly relations ! De- 
spite all that she was suffering — all her 
racking grief and anxiety — there was a 
sense of repose and relief in the con- 
sciousness of his companionship and pro- 
tection. 

Some men have a peculiar faculty of 
inspiring this feeling of reliance — this 
absolute trust in their capability of pro- 
tecting all persons and interests under 
their care ; and Dinsmore, though one of 
the most quiet, least self-asserting ofmen, 
possessed it in an extreme degree. 

During the railway - journey they 
talked little, for both w^ere oppressed by 
the uncertainty of what lay before them ; 
but, when they found themselves on board 
the Calais boat, they had, in a measure, 
become accustomed to the situation, and 
it was a relief from tormenting thought 
to converse on subjects altogether apart 
from the one subject which harassed them. 

Almost unconsciously Mrs. Trafford 
found herself speaking of her married life, 
and describing to Hugh — who listened 
with more interest than he would have 
believed possible — many of its incidents 
and scenes. But that on which she prin- 
cipally dwelt, with a simplicity full of 
truth and pathos, was the generous kind- 
ness of the husband who had taken far 
more the place of father than of husband 
to her. 

As he listened, Hugh seemed to under- 
stand her story better than he had ever 
done before, and it was borne to him with 
the force of a revelation that she had 
acted wisely and well in making the mar- 
riage for which he had always in his 
heart reproached her. 

“ How often we are presumptuous 
fools, without knowing it! ” he said, 
abruptly, as this thought pressed upon 
him. “I am ashamed to think of the 
manner in which I once ventured to ar- 


“ CHECKMATED— BY FATE.’ 


205 


raign you for your intention of marrying 
Mr. Trafford ; and still more ashamed to 
consider that years did not teach me more 
wisdom. A month ago I still classed you 
among women who sell their hearts to the 
bondage of a mercenary marriage ; though 
I should have known — ” 

“ You should have known that I had 
no heart to sell,” she said, with a slightly 
sad and bitter smile. “ Love was dead to 
me — at least, so I thought then; but in 
my desolate position, my undisciplined 
youth, I needed a protector above all 
things, and God sent one to me, in the 
person of the best and kindest friend that 
ever woman had.” 

There was silence after this for a time, 
and neither of them ever forgot the scene 
around them — the wide expanse of sea 
silvered with a flood of moonlight; the 
deck with its scattered groups here and 
there ; the vessel throbbing and rocking 
after the manner of steamers ; above all, 
the ever-recurring consciousness of the 
novelty and strangeness of their posi- 
tion. 

On landing at Calais, they found the 
train for Paris just starting; and, after 
they had taken their places, Dinsmore 
left Mrs. Trafford for a moment. When 
he returned, his face was grave and pale 
with a new gravity and pallor ; but the 
light was dim, and Mrs. Trafford was be- 
ginning to feel the exhaustion consequent 
on her day of excitement, so the fact es- 
caped her attention, and, a few minutes 
later, the train started. 

“Try to sleep,” he said, piling shawls 
and cushions around her ; and, though she 
felt, at first, that this was impossible, she 
presently dropped asleep from sheer fa- 
tigue, and lay unconscious, while the 
lamp-light shone on her face with its chis- 
eled features, and the long lashes swept 
her marble-like cheeks. 

Dinsmore sat alternately watching this 
face and the moonlit country with ghostly 
trees and houses flitting by. His mind 
■was possessed with a variety of thoughts ; 
but, through all their vagaries, his feat- 


ures never lost the look of new gravity 
which they had acquired at Calais. 

The hours went on. At the stations, 
now and then, Mrs. Trafford stirred a lit- 
tle, but did not rouse herself until his 
hand touched her. Then she opened her 
eyes quickly. 

“What is it?” she asked, for the 
train was slackening speed. “ Paris al- 
ready ? ” 

“No, not Paris — Amiens,” he an- 
swered. “I think it best to stop here 
for a few hours. I will tell you why, 
presently.” 

She glanced at him in surprise; but 
his quiet, composed manner put objection 
out of the question, and she only said : 

“I am satisfled to do whatever you 
think best, pro-vuded that you do not 
wish to stop because you think I need 
rest.” 

“ It is not on that account at all,” he 
answered; and, as he spoke, the train 
rushed into the station. 

The next thing which Mrs. Trafford — 
who was a little bewildered — clearly 
knew, she was in dijiacre^ rattling through 
various narrow streets, on one side of 
which the moonlight poured, revealing 
the tall, foreign houses, that had to her a 
very familiar aspect. 

“ Why are we stopping here, Hugh? ” 
she asked, in her perplexity. 

But Hugh only answered : “ Have pa- 
tience. Wait a short time, and you shall 
know.” 

The hotel at which they presently 
alighted bore as cheerless an aspect as ho- 
tels usually do in the hours between mid- 
night and dawning. Nevertheless, they 
were speedily shown to comfortable 
apartments ; and, when Dinsmore parted 
with Mrs. Trafford, he said : 

“ Pray endeavor to rest. To-morrow 
morning you shall hear the cause of this 
delay.” 

“ Why should I not hear it now ? ” she 
asked. 

“ Because I am not certain with re- 
gard to it,” he replied. “ Trust me, and 


206 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


believe that I shall not be idle while you 
sleep.” 

“I could not believe that you would 
ever be idle while your friends were 
to be served! ” she said, giving him her 
hand. 

The soft pressure lingered with him 
like a benediction after the door had 
closed upon her, and he went his way — 
but not to sleep. There were inquiries 
to be made without loss of time, doubts 
to be solved, and suspicions to be veri- 
fied. 

Having as it were, shifted her care to 
Dinsmore’s shoulders, Mrs. Trafford slept 
for the remainder of the night ; and, when 
she opened her eyes, the sunlight was 
lying in bars of gold on the floor of her 
chamber. For a moment her strange sur- 
roundings puzzled her; then the memory 
of all that had occurred flashed upon her, 
and, with a heavy sigh, she extended her 
hand and rang the bell. 

The servant who answered it carried 
in her hand a tray on which was arranged 
a very dainty breakfast. It was brought 
by monsieur’s orders, she said, and, after 
madame had breakfasted and made her 
toilet, monsieur awaited her in the saloon 
adjoining her apartment. 

This information was suflScient to 
hasten madame’s movements. She drank 
a cup of cafe an lait, and forced herself to 
eat a bit of bread ; then her toilet was 
hurriedly made, and she opened the door 
leading into the salon. 

Dinsmore, who was standing by one 
of the windows, turned, and came for- 
ward to meet her. 

“ I hope you slept well,” he said, look- 
ing, with an expression of concern, at her 
pale, eager face. 

“Yes, I slept very well,” she an- 
swered. “ I don’t know how I could, un- 
less it was because I felt that you were 
awake, and working. How, tell me if 
you have any news.” 

“Sit down,” he said, drawing a chair 
forward and placing her in it. “You 


shall hear why I stopped here, and what 
I have gained by stopping. Do you re- 
member that, after putting you in the 
train at Calais, I left you for a few min- 
utes? Well, during those few minutes I 
learned that there had been a terrible ac- 
cident on the line earlier in the day, and 
twenty or thirty people had been killed 
and wounded.” 

She uttered a cry, her face blanching 
to the whiteness of snow. 

“ Great Heavens ! ” she said. “ Mari- 
ette ! ” 

“ Be tranquil,” he said, gently. “ Mari- 
ette is unhurt. I know that now, but I 
did not know it then, and I was very un- 
easy. I could not obtain any list of names, 
but was told that the victims of the catas- 
trophe were all at Amiens ; and the only 
thing to be done to set anxiety at rest, 
therefore, was to stop here. If I had 
found no trace of them, we should have 
gone on to Paris two hours later; but — I 
have found a trace.” 

She gazed at him so eagerly, that the 
breath seemed hushed on her parted lips. 

“Are they here?” she asked. “Is 
that what you mean ? ” 

“ That is what I mean,” he answered, 
quietly. “I have seen them. Mariette, 
as I have said, is unhurt, but Marchmont 
is fatally injured.” 

The words were deliberately spoken, 
but she heard them with a sense of unre- 
ality which it is impossible to describe. 
Fatally injured ! It seemed incredible 
that the visitation of God had fallen on 
the man in his pride and strength, just as 
he was about to strike the second blow 
which had fallen from his hand upon her ! 
Ten minutes before, she would have cried 
out that any means which would remove 
him forever from her path of life would 
be welcome ; but now she felt awed into 
silence by this unexpected fulfillment of 
her desire. 

“Will he die? ” she asked, presently. 

“ There is no hope whatever ; he will 
certainly die,” Dinsmore answered. “ I 
found Mariette with him, and I have not 


“ CHECKMATED— BY FATE.” 


207 


undeceived her with regard to his sincer- 
ity. It seemed useless to do so. The 
knot is cut — she will never marry him.” 

“ Mariette must have been greatly sur- 
prised to see you ? ” 

“ She was very much surprised, and, 
I think, was very glad. She met me with 
a cry of welcome and relief. The shock, 
the terror, and her strange position, have, 
I believe, altogether cured her romance. 
I told her that you were here, and she 
would have come to you, but that she 
shrank from leaving the dying man.” 

“I will go to her at once,” said Mrs. 
TralFord, rising. “ She must not he left 
in that position alone. O Hugh, I thank 
you from my heart for having been wise 
enough to stop here I What should I 
have done without you ? ” 

A few minutes later, they were driv- 
ing to an hotel near the railroad, where 
Marchrnont, together with some of the 
other victims of the catastrophe, had been 
taken. 

Dinsmore led his companion straight 
to a salon adjoining the apartment in 
which lay the dying man, and left her 
there while he entered the room beyond. 
He had hardly been gone a moment, when, 
from the door through which he had dis- 
appeared, Mariette entered and rushed 
toward her sister, like a child seeking 
shelter. Before Mrs. Traflford could utter 
a word, the eager arms were round her, 
the golden head resting on her shoulder. 

“ O Amy, how good of you to come I ” 
she sobbed. “Oh, can you forgive me? 
Oh, what must you think of me ! I began 
to realize what I had done when that 
awful accident came. Oh, if I had been 
killed, and had never seen you again ! ” 

“ Thank God, you are safe ! ” said 
Mrs. Trafford, sobbing in turn; and so 
the two clung together, and kissed each 
other, while further words were useless 
to tell their joy on being together again. 

“Oh, I have felt so lost — so fright- 
ened!” said Mariette. “When Hugh 
came, his face seemed to me like the face 
of an angel 1 When he told me of your 
14 


anxiety, I — I -was so very sorry ! I did 
not know — I did not think what I was 
doing, Amy. I should like you to believe 
that.” 

“ I do believe it 1 ” said Amy, and 
paused. She was about to add, “ I tbank 
God for your rescue.” But she suddenly 
felt that it was impossible to thank him 
that a fellow-creature, however great his 
guilt, was dying near by in agony. 

“We will talk of that another time,” 
she said, with a slight shudder. “Tell 
me about the accident. How did you 
escape ? ” 

“ By the mercy of God 1 ” answered 
Mariette. “ There was no other possible 
reason why I should have been spared 
where others perished. It was horrible 1 ” 
— she covered her face with her hands. 
“I shall never forget it! I think the 
scene will haunt me as long as I live. 
Then, there was yesterday and last night. 
Oh, when Hugh came to me,” she said, 
again, “I was so grateful, that I could 
i have knelt to him ! ” 

Hugh entered the room as she spoke, 
and walked gravely up to them. 

“That unhappy man has not many 
minutes to live,” he said, “ and he wishes 
to see — both of you.” 

Mrs. Trafford shrank back with a visi- 
ble repugnance. 

“ He cannot wish to see me ! ” she said. 

“ He dA)es wish to see you,” Hugh an- 
swered ; “ and you cannot refuse to go.” 

She felt that he was right ; she could 
not refuse to go, let Marchmont’s reason 
for the request be what it might. Al- 
most unconsciously, she laid her hand on 
Dinsmore’s arm, and so they entered the 
room together. 

The dying man, whose life was passing 
away in shuddering gasps, lifted his eyes 
and saw them. At that moment he did 
not see the face of his promised bride, 
who was beside him ; his glance passed 
over her, to rest on the woman whom he 
had loved, forgotten, loved again, hated, 
and tried to injure. She paused at the 
! foot of his couch and looked steadily at 


208 


AFTER MAXY DAYS. 


him — her large, brilliant eyes full of a 
solemn sadness. 

“ Believe me, Brian Marchmont,” she 
said, slowly, “I am sorry that we should 
meet again like this.” 

He did not answer at once ; the breath 
was drawn once or twice with a gasping 
sound between his white lips before the 
sentence dropped from them : 

“ Checkmated — by Fate ! ” 

That was all. These three words em- 
bodied his death-bed commentary on the 
failure which his life had proved, and he 
spoke no others. Whether he had meant 
to say more in sending for Amy Trafford, 
or whether he simply wished to look on 
her face, can never be known. 

A change, like no other of mortality, 
came over his countenance a minute later, 
and Hugh, turning to his companion, 
whispered : 

“ The end is at hand. Take Mariette 
away.” 

The end was indeed at hand ! While 
Mariette, resisting her sister’s touch, 
threw herself on her knees, the head fell 
back, a strong shiver shook the mangled 
frame, and the nurse said, “ He is dead! ” 


CHAPTER XYII. 

“aftee long grief and pain.” 

The horror of this tragical end to her 
brief romance was too much for Mariette. 
Excitement culminated in illness, and for 
many days she lay in feverish stupor al- 
ternated by feverish delirium. As soon 
as she had recovered sufficiently to be 
removed, Mrs. Trafford carried her to a 
quiet sea-side town in Normandy, and 
there they spent the summer. 

When the girl was able to hear the 
truth respecting the unhappy man who 
had perished, it was told to her kindly 
and gently — far too kindly and gently for 
her to dream of doubting it. As Hugh 
had said, her fancy had already died as 


quickly as it began ; but she shuddered to 
think how near she had come to wrecking 
her life. Realizing this, and realizing, 
also, that but for her folly Marchmont 
would be alive, her remorse was very 
keen, and for a time a depression which 
was almost morbid weighed upon her. 

As she recovered health and strength, 
however, this feeling disappeared, though 
it was evident to Mrs. Trafford that an 
impression had been made on her char- 
acter which it would never lose. The 
nymph-like joyousness had vanished from 
her face ; the knowledge of evil as well as 
of good, of pain as well as of pleasure, 
had set its signet on the fair features 
and given a new expression to the violet 
eyes. 

The engagement with Captain Gresh- 
am was dissolved by her own act. No 
rumor of scandal had gone abroad, no 
knowledge of her elopement had trans- 
pired; but as soon as she could hold a 
pen she had written — a very different let- 
ter from that which Mrs. Trafford had 
suppressed — setting the young man free. 

He did not appreciate the kindness, 
but, indignant and aggrieved, started at 
once and made his unexpected appearance 
in the quaint little sea-side town. 

It was impossible to deny his right to 
an explanation; and Mariette, pale, but 
very composed, said to her sister : 

“I shall tell him the whole truth.” 

“1 do not think it is necessary,” Mrs. 
Trafford answered. “Simply tell him 
that you do not and cannot love him. 
That will be enough.” 

“ I do not feel as if it will be enough,” 
the girl said. “I have treated him so 
shamefully, that it will be some amende 
to be perfectly frank — to let him know 
how little I am worth regretting.” 

The woman of the world shook her 
head. 

“ When you are older,” she said, “ you 
will know that nothing is more useless 
than to publish any fact to your own dis- 
credit. In this matter you must follow 
your own judgment ; but I warn you that 


“AFrER LONG GRIEF AND PAIN.” 


209 


it will be better to say no more than you 
are forced to say.” 

Perhaps it was not strange that Mari- 
ette did not follow this advice. She was 
young, she was impulsive, she was re- 
morseful; so she told Stamer Gresham 
everything. To say that he was deeply 
shocked, gives only a faint idea of what 
he felt; but, if he was not brilliant in 
mind, he was a thorough gentleman in na- 
ture, and he uttered no word of reproach. 

“I am sorry that I have annoyed you 
with this visit,” he said, after a short, 
troubled silence. “ I ought to have been 
content with what you wrote me; but I 
did not know — I did not suspect — any- 
thing like this.” 

“How could you?” said Mariette, 
with her golden head bent. “I have 
acted shamefully, and — and I tell you of 
it in order that you may be glad that our 
engagement is ended. I do not care if 
you let all the world know how and why 
the engagement was broken off. I de- 
serve it.” 

“ You need not fear that,” he said. “ I 
shall not even tell my mother anything 
more than that you cannot love me. 
That is surely enough. I do not deny 
that this is an awful blow to me,” the 
poor fellow went on ; “ but I suppose I 
shall get over it in time. At all events, I 
thank you for your frankness, Miss Rey- 
nolds. You have my best wishes for your 
happiness, and — good-by ! ” 

Mariette was sobbing by this time, so 
she did not lift her eyes; but she was 
aware that her hand was wrung very 
hard, and then Captain Gresham left the 
room, and was seen by her no more. 

One must pay a price for everything 
in this world ; and the price which Mari- 
ette paid for her brief romance and her 
tragically-ended elopement would have 
been esteemed, by most young ladies, 
very heavy. , 

Mariette herself did not regret the loss 
of the baronet’s son, however. She was 
glad to be free — glad to feel that no one 
had any claim on her life. 


“ I see, now, that it would not be safe 
for me to marry without love,” she said 
to her sister. “ I will never, never make 
such an attempt again — not even if a 
prince were to ask the honor of my alli- 
ance.” 

“ I suppose we must all learn wisdom 
by experience,” said Mrs. Trafford; and, 
when it does not come too late, we ought 
to be thankful to learn it at any cost. 
Yours has not come too late. Some day 
you will know what love is, and then you 
will be grateful that you did not bind 
your life in the bondage of a loveless 
marriage.” 

“ I am in no haste for that day to ar- 
rive,” said Mariette, looking meditatively 
out over the wide expanse of waves wash- 
ing toward the land as the incoming tide 
rippled high on the beach. “ I have had 
enough — more than enough —of love and 
lovers, to last me for many days. When 
I am as old as you are, perhaps I may 
think again of such things. I begin to 
understand why you have become so sen- 
timental of late,” she added, with a smile. 
Then, with an arch look, she asked: 
“ When is Hugh coming again ? ” 

“ I do not know,” answered Mrs. Traf- 
ford, while a blush, brighter than the sun- 
set glow, dyed her face. 

It was not long after this conversation 
that Hugh came. He was not expected, 
but Mariette received him warmly, and 
told him that Mrs. Trafford had gone 
down to the beach. 

“You will find it a great deal pleas- 
anter to go in search of her than to stay 
here with me,” she added, frankly. “ I 
am dull and stupid to the last degree; 
and, when Amy went out, I would not go 
with her. How I am glad of it, for she 
will have a better companion.” 

“ Probably she does not care for any 
companion,” said Dinsmore, anxious to 
go, yet reluctant. 

Mariette gave him a look of laughing 
impatience. 

“ How foolish you are ! ” she said. 


210 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


“ As if you do not know that Amy will 
be delighted to see you ! Pray go.” 

“ It is evident that you are determined 
to be rid of me,” he said, smiling ; and, 
without waiting for further persuasion, 
he went. 

A path led from the village down the 
somewhat steep face of a cliff to the sands 
below. As Dinsmore descended this, he 
overlooked a magnificent expanse of sea, . 
heaving and flashing as the waves swelled 
steadily inward, and the murmur of the 
tide filled the air. 

There were a few figures here and 
there on the beach, but he soon identified 
the one of which he was in search — a lady 
who sat alone, watching the waves as 
they raced backward and forward and 
broke in sparkling foam on the sand. 

He advanced upon her from behind, 
so that it was not until his shadow sud- 
denly fell over her that she looked up. 

She was surprised to see him, but not 
startled, and, without rising, she held out 
her hand with a smile. 

“I am glad to see you,” she said. 
“How good of you to come and cheer 
our solitude! But perhaps you did not 
come for that purpose. I believe you 
mentioned, when we parted, that you in- 
tended coming to Normandy on a paint- 
ing-tour.” 

“ I believe I did,” he answered, sit- 
ting down beside her ; “ but one may 
sometimes combine pleasure and profit. 
Just at present I cannot say that painting 
is very much to my mind. I have come 
especially to see how you and Mariette 
are getting on.” 

“Thank you! ” — and her eyes echoed 
the words ; “ we are getting on admira- 
bly ! Have you not seen Mariette ? She 
is regaining health and strength rapid- 
ly.” 

“ And health of mind, I hope, as well 
as health of body ? ” 

“Yes; her depression is vanishing, 
though she still has fits of self-reproach 
and remorse. Have you heard of the 
visitor whom we had not long ago ? ” 


Hugh’s face changed. A certain re- 
serve — a kind of cloud — fell over it. 

“ No,” he replied; “ I have not heard 
of any visitor. It was Colonel Danesford, 
probably ? ” 

She looked at him with evident as- 
tonishinent. 

“ Colonel Danesford ! ” she repeated. 
“ Why should you think of him? He has 
gone out of my life — almost out of my 
thoughts. No ; it was Stamer Gresham 
who came to see Mariette.” 

“ And what was the result ? ” 

“The result was, that she told him 
everything — foolishly, I thought at the 
time ; but now I am not so sure. There 
is sometimes a saving grace in frankness, 
even when it can serve no definite end. 
Do you not think so ? ” 

“ Yes,” he answered, looking not at 
her, but out over the sea, with its waves 
washing up and down, and some white 
gulls flying far away. “We can never 
tell what definite end it may serve,” he 
went on, after a moment. “False im- 
pressions may be removed, wrong ideas 
brushed away, by very simple explana- 
tions. Do you remember some things you 
said to me when we were alone on the 
steamer crossing from Dover to Calais ? 
No doubt they seemed very simple truths 
to you ; but to me they were revelations. 
I found that I had been looking at your 
life and your motives from altogether a 
wrong point of view, and consequently 
utterly mistaking them.” 

“ It was very natural,” she said, as he 
paused — “I mean with regard to my 
motives. With regard to my life, I am 
not sure that you were mistaken in your 
estimate of it. I have had time for se- 
rious reflections here — the first in ten 
years; and, in looking back, I see little 
to fill me with satisfaction. My triumphs 
have been very empty, and my pleasures 
ha-^ often left a bitter taste behind. 
When I was a girl, my ambition, as you 
may remember, was boundless. By the 
most extraordinary turn of Fortune’s 
wheel, I was placed in a position to grat- 


“AFTER LONG GRIEF AND PAIN.’ 


211 


ify that ambition to its utmost, and I 
have done so. Conquest, homage, ad- 
miration, wealth, and leisure, have been 
mine ; and what is the end ? Why, weari- 
ness of the soul and of the spirits, and a 
longing, which I can hardly restrain, to 
return to the simpler forms of life.” 

“ In which you would not he content- 
ed for an hour ! ” said Hugh, calmly. 
“ Do you know why it is that the life 
you have lived for several years does not 
satisfy you, as it satisfies other women? 
I can tell you in a few words : you have 
both a mind and a heart, and neither the 
one nor the other has had any play what- 
ever. Your intellectual culture has been 
fitful and superficial, and your alfections, 
except with regard to Mariette, have lain 
absolutely dormant. Consequently, both 
intellect and heart have risen in revolt.” 

She smiled faintly, and a little sadly. 

“ Your diagnosis may he correct,” she 
said. “ I do not know. But a physician 
does not content himself with naming a 
malady; he also prescribes the remedy.'''^ 

Hugh shrugged his shoulders slightly. 

“ He should be certian of his skill be- 
fore attempting to do so. I may be en- 
tirely mistaken. I have grown more 
diffident of my judgment. Modesty is 
a good thing to cultivate, even at a very 
late day. Besides, 1 think that I have 
played lecturer often enough, Mrs. Traf- 
ford. You have been very good to tol- 
erate my presumption so long ; but 
now — ” - 

“How you are going to cease speak- 
ing truth to me — you, the only person in 
the world who doeB speak it I ” she said, 
as he broke off abruptly. “I am not 
sure that I care for your newly-found 
good opinion, if this is the result! ” 

“ Why should you care for it in any 
event?” he asked, turning on her almost 
angrily. “It could only be for one 
reason; and surely it would he a poor 
triumph to draw such a man as I am to 
your feet 1 ” 

The color mounted swiftly into her 
cheeks, but her self-control was admi- 


rable ; and, when he rose impetuously to 
his feet, she also rose and confronted 
him. 

“ So you do me injustice even yet, 
Hugh I ” she said, gently. “ Nothing has 
been further from my thoughts than the 
idea of drawing you to my feet. I am 
not blind, nor hopelessly obtuse. I have 
comprehended your dislike — I might al- 
most say, your contempt ; and, now that 
you are beginning to regard me with 
justice and kindlier feelings, I only hope 
to find in you my old friend.” 

“Who never was your friend, hut 
always your lover ! ” said he, hoarsely. 
“ I see it is useless, Amy ; I cannot play 
the part I thought I could. When a man 
has loved one woman all his life, he can- 
not hope to forget her at my age. I must 
love you to the end, I suppose. But I 
cannot, I will not surrender all serenity 
of mind, all power of labor, on account 
of such an infatuation, and therefore it is 
necessary that my path of life should be 
apart from yours. Try and forgive this 
outburst. I believe that I have done you 
injustice, and that you did not deserve 
it. Shall I leave you now ? Perhaps it 
will be best.” 

He turned quickly, and had taken 
half a dozen steps on the sand, when her 
dress rustled by his side and her hand 
touched his arm. Fortunately, they were 
almost entirely alone. The other figures 
had dispersed in different directions; 
only far down the beach a fisherman sat 
on an upturned boat, mending same nets. 

At that touch, light and soft as it was, 
Dinsmore looked round, and the expres- 
sion of the face which met his gaze made 
him stand motionless. Was he mad, or 
dreaming? What was this tender radi- 
ance on the fair outlines which he had 
known so long and loved so well ? 

“ Amy I ” he cried, incredulously. 

“I have learned many lessons in my 
life, Hugh,” said Amy, with that supreme 
quietness which sometimes comes when 
the height of emotion has been reached • 
“ but the chief of them is this : that 


212 


AFTER MANY DAYS. 


earth holds nothing better than the love 
of one brave, honest, constant heart like 
yours; and if you can forgive me — if, 
after all these years, you can care for a 
heart like mine — ” 

“ ^ I care ! ” he repeated, clasping 
her hand in a vise-like grasp. “ Amy, it 


cannot be that you mean that it is mine 
at last ? ” 

“ It is yours at last ! ” she answered. 

And what could Hugh do, but take 
her in his arms, and thank God, who had 
granted him this crowning gift of his life 
— after many days ! 


THE 


END. 


By FRANK R. STOCKTON. 


The Captain's Toll-Gate. 

A Complete Posthumous Novel by Frank R. 
Stockton, Author of “ Kate Bonnet,” “ The Lady 
or the Tiger,” etc. With a Memoir by Mrs. Stock- 
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The scene is partly laid in Washington but mainly in 
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the readers must have imagined him. Swinging in a hammock under 
the fir trees, or when winter came, in an easy chair before a big log 
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to his secretary .” — Netv York Sun. 


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